I Wear My Dreams
I Wear My Dreams Like Ambitious, Impulsive Thrift Store Finds.
By themselves, they are so ordinary. Tossed away by others... rejected... I picked them up and somehow saw beauty in them. Pieced them together. Created something new out of things old. Now as I turn this way and that in front of my floor length mirror... I like the way these dreams fit. I like how they gently hug my curves and subtley disguise my flaws. The colors bring out my eyes.
I smile.
It's as if they were stitched just for me. Hands that held these dreams before me prayed over them, each thread and stitch. Words were spoken, blessings were blessed, and prayers were prayed.
These are My Dreams.
That's why they don't look as good on other girls. They were made uniquely for me. My shape, my size. Other girls can't pull off these dreams... can't rock them like I can.
I Paint My Dreams Like Bold, Colorful Strokes Across a Black and White Canvas.
Sometimes I'm afraid to paint what I really want. Sometimes I wonder if I ought to paint black and white like everyone else, but then I notice that the Colors are what make mine Beautiful.
Back and forth brush strokes. Back and forth.
It's almost monotonous. I want to give up. Progress is slow.
"Don't stop. Step back. Look at what you are making. It's beautiful." Sometimes I forget to listen. But sometimes I remember, and I step back... and it takes my breath away, it is so beautiful.
"Beauty comes from those who are beautiful," He reminds.
"Beauty comes from you," I whisper back. And I keep whispering His Beautiful Words over this painting, over these dreams, to dry the paint so it is captured forever, His and mine. Our Beautiful Thing.
I Sing My Dreams Like Calculated Arias. Never off pitch, never quite letting go. Just barely giving but I Will Never Mess Up. I will not be made a fool. I will practice until I get it perfect. I will keep them in the safety of my shower... I will lock them in the airtight box of my bedroom. People will not, must not hear the notes. What if I squeak, or run out of air? They might laugh. I cannot risk it.
He keeps on reminding. "Sing, for it is beautiful."
I grimace. "Lord, I might screw up."
"It will echo beauty."
For some reason, His urging gives me confidence. So finally, finally, I sing.
And Oh, My Soul, it Magnifies the Lord With Beauty.
By themselves, they are so ordinary. Tossed away by others... rejected... I picked them up and somehow saw beauty in them. Pieced them together. Created something new out of things old. Now as I turn this way and that in front of my floor length mirror... I like the way these dreams fit. I like how they gently hug my curves and subtley disguise my flaws. The colors bring out my eyes.
I smile.
It's as if they were stitched just for me. Hands that held these dreams before me prayed over them, each thread and stitch. Words were spoken, blessings were blessed, and prayers were prayed.
These are My Dreams.
That's why they don't look as good on other girls. They were made uniquely for me. My shape, my size. Other girls can't pull off these dreams... can't rock them like I can.
I Paint My Dreams Like Bold, Colorful Strokes Across a Black and White Canvas.
Sometimes I'm afraid to paint what I really want. Sometimes I wonder if I ought to paint black and white like everyone else, but then I notice that the Colors are what make mine Beautiful.
Back and forth brush strokes. Back and forth.
It's almost monotonous. I want to give up. Progress is slow.
"Don't stop. Step back. Look at what you are making. It's beautiful." Sometimes I forget to listen. But sometimes I remember, and I step back... and it takes my breath away, it is so beautiful.
"Beauty comes from those who are beautiful," He reminds.
"Beauty comes from you," I whisper back. And I keep whispering His Beautiful Words over this painting, over these dreams, to dry the paint so it is captured forever, His and mine. Our Beautiful Thing.
I Sing My Dreams Like Calculated Arias. Never off pitch, never quite letting go. Just barely giving but I Will Never Mess Up. I will not be made a fool. I will practice until I get it perfect. I will keep them in the safety of my shower... I will lock them in the airtight box of my bedroom. People will not, must not hear the notes. What if I squeak, or run out of air? They might laugh. I cannot risk it.
He keeps on reminding. "Sing, for it is beautiful."
I grimace. "Lord, I might screw up."
"It will echo beauty."
For some reason, His urging gives me confidence. So finally, finally, I sing.
And Oh, My Soul, it Magnifies the Lord With Beauty.
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