Lord, I have failed again; My striving is in vain. My thoughts turn dark; My soul yearns in wretched lust Toward deeds sinful and vile! Ah, Lord, there’s nothing I deserve but to feel The backside of Your hand Across my face— Such a wretch I am, O Lord! No. I don’t deserve the love That You offer

In my mind gray clouds roll high. They crowd over my sun, and there is no clear sky. But on sunny days, when I look up and see clear sky I remember His care, and cast my clouds on Him who reigns on high.

Drops cascading, Ripples distributing, Rings expanding–– Disturbing my peace. Surface shattering, Skies scattering, Clouds concealing–– Stealing my joy. Trees reaching, Branches grabbing, Sun retreating–– Unseating my ease. Clouds wrestling, Stars crashing, Thunder roaring–– Ignoring my cries. Torrents relenting, Waves repenting, Rains receding–– My face rejoicing. Rays peeking, Surface calming, Banks rising–– My blessings overflow.

The angels lead me to A crystal river of life Flowing from a golden throne. Stepping into the glassy stream, I meet peace unlike any other, Calling me to surrender and submerge. Tainted no more, my body Receives divine grace In these opal depths. My mind reflects on pure thoughts. My soul dwells in everlasting joy. My heart soaks in

Believe me, the last thing I want to do is write more nonfiction. My dream is to be a novelist. But if you’ve read my work before, you know that I suffer from a terminal case of writer’s block. When I heard that Inkwell’s theme this month was “Clarity,” I began to assemble all the pieces I

I just love the American education system. Especially when it comes to middle school. Someone somewhere decided that it would be a great idea to throw a bunch of hormonal, confused, prepubescent individuals into a confined space. And once that person successfully convinced the entirety of America that this was a good idea, they immediately opened a firehose of questions

It starts with the clang of metal gates, hundreds or even thousands of miles away. Mud-matted horses with fevered eyes crash together in a tiny pen as men with long whips and orange flags separate them and funnel them one by one into narrow chutes. The dead end of the chute is a horse trailer, and the trailer ride leads

From as young as seven years old, people have always told me I’m “good at English.” It took me an embarrassingly long amount of time to accept that, though. It must have all started with the diary entries. I’d go to elementary school for the day, come back home, grab my highly esteemed blue furry Littlest Pet Shop

Friday, December 5, 1941                                                                           7:52 a.m. “Yasu?” The man snorted. “I never heard that name before, and I’ve heard some strange ones living in a big city.” Yasu pressed his lips together. “It’s a Japanese name. My family is Japanese.” The man turned his head sharply. “Japanese? How’s that? You look more Norwegian than Japanese,

The mischievous Russian Blue hunched on the shelf, taunting me with her purrs and deceitfully sunny personality. She shook my wand in her jaws, her saliva flying everywhere. "Zinta! You drop that right now," I ordered. The cat flicked her tail at my face and jumped to a higher shelf. She landed next to Master Magnus's potion ingredients, the glass