Dearest Dad,

This nauseous feeling is so intense God. Yesterday at work was brutal. Fighting to push through the nausea and lightheaded emotions I felt all day was so real. But I kept everything I felt as much as I could’ve remembered in prayer with you God. Fool me once not twice, I won’t get caught up again. And thank you for that blessing last Saturday at that Christian conference for educators. It was the refuel I desperately needed. 

This is a formation in Your Determination, to starve and carve my flesh god confess is a painful process of stress. How you’re pruning me is fine tuning me, but it’s a painful gain in my story for Your Glory. I’m in distress, and my kinetic poetic release is Your Prophetic please. In my midnight hour you always control the Power, because there is gain in your Great Name. In my self made pollution you God hold all the godly solutions. My restoration is Your Preparation.

Dad the world is in a very scary place, in this fiction of flesh, there’s division to press play on confess. The wrong swing still stings and your obey is not playing okay for your broken chosen God. There’s accountability in unity when we as a chosen, decide to no longer pause the cause of hiding, to allow the bow from our hallow swallow. It’s the delete of delay to press play flesh god prey, not pray to slay in the obey God’s Way. Press today in the okay of no longer stressing flesh god facade of the looping trooping mirage. It’s a self sabotage designed to be aligned in the play on lie and die of worldly sanitize. This deluded proof is a self alluded aloof, to make the pale scales prevail, and interrupt that pending ripped veil.  

I can’t sleep, I’m passed counting sheep, and my reaction in my lack of satisfaction, is to stick to my pressing play in bleep bleep bleep. That’s not okay to Your Obey. As my King that makes my soul sing, plays the say: The drumming in my heart is the reality of my dark. My missed mark is a spark light that plays by God and His Might. My Mighty King who takes my stakes and stings to channel day and press play on my soul to sing. My singing stings because it’s painful reels of peeling feelings. My silent salute is now being rejected from my okay to press play on moving on mute. In my choke to play evoke because you spoke God. This is a facade that you no longer allow me to play a flesh god. My continuum in this unavoidable conundrum is all apart of my actuate swing called Your Pendulum. 

I cannot believe my King is relieved that all is being released in His deliberate please. I don’t like to write because it sheds godly light on my patrol to control all that’s done at night. My everyday is a yesterday of today. All my walls are pressing play to fall. My no is God’s go. In this call, my King who makes my soul sing expects my all. My press play on denial in God’s loving files, where God never puts me on trail. In my bleed, my flesh god weeds no longer press play on barren seeds. Press play in His follow and eject my reject in hallow swallow. My lean in mean is an unrealistic glean to who God called me to be. What God shows me to see is for me to finally press play in the pull of full free.  

I’m the her with the stir that says no, but my King who makes my soul sing says this will be a go. His way, not my press eject to okay, not the he who presses on delay, because thy will be done thy kingdom come. For he + He + her, will be done. I see an incomplete sentence that would star two flesh god menaces, he sees a lack of tangibility that interrupts his facade of tranquility. he is the be that believes in the need to patrol in control. I see the same. We’re both stubborn and lame. The unfolding in pressing play on cheap lemonade, is showing my he how much he truly needs His Renegade. My mr. mean, lean and glean that features ms. 17 is looped in a minute mirage that’s outwardly displaying destructive sabotage. The wrong she is an expired be to never press play on flesh god facade. In actuality, my he’s reality is pressing play on the ruse of this regrettable muse he now eternally presses play on refuse. 

My he is in reject mode of that instinctive eternal neglect code, of this current self made projected emptiness. ms. 17 plays hide in the pride that is now slowly dying in all this lying. My he feels and wishes he can peel away and fade in the see of free. God is their problem, therefore flesh god is only playing an expired facade. Press eject to this prospect that was blessed by a godless flesh confess. This test was a self made protest that God presses reject. Man played go, God never said go. This season of reason is the seventh sign, to have both mr. mean, lean and glean, featuring the fracturing fading ms. 17 to press reject in confinement to press play in alignment to God Almighty. Then the pale scales they both permit to prevail will finally fail after pressing play in admit. Then they will be free, to see the commit in pressing play kinetic separately. Delay will no longer allocate this suffocate in this misery that will soon be history. They both will bow, and allow pressing the play of God in His obey, not yesterday, or later but today. There will be the end of that pretend in dying Groundhog Day. 

This wrong she that findeth he in mr. mean, lean and glean as the wrong strong throng, cannot press play in this fading today of yesterday. Their prideful hiding, will continue to die in the piling filing lies that neither of them can press play in this land of two strands lame. The truth in God’s proof is too strong to fight for press play in aloof. Rejecting day and playing night is no longer the stronger sight. The misconceptions of their misfits starring this hit it and quit it, will no longer be a hidden admittance. The broken weeds in these barren seeds, that both ms. 17 and mr. mean, lean and glean are being uplifted. Their unilateral press in their stressful play of pathological muted salutes, is no longer their unified tribute. Their increasing need for God’s Gills is synonymous with the increasing impossibility of their thirst to be still. What was done in the dark has a godly spark that’s shedding light in the nightly community that rallied behind this dying unity.

Their cheap thrill expired in the birthing spill of the play in die since the winter of January. The countdown of the destructive showdown began. Tick tock tick tock clocks are the stops that can no longer hide ms. 17’s shock. Playing dumb is the adjunction of keeping the wrong track in ms. 17’s silent attacks. Only God can do correct math. ms. 17 clings to this poisonous sting, is truly a mind flip trip ring. The red in this lead is dead. Their explosive pending combust is a deluded distrust that this wrong she fights to be, all this work to cling to the wrong jar births this sliding slippery tar. ms. 17’s fall is near. ms. 17’s fall is here. flesh god can no longer press play in worldly delay. God validates not man. Be free in His be, ms. 17 let that jar of tar go and stop saying no. The idols are being displayed in ms. 17’s dismay. 

Despite the protest God is taking over as the commander of this assessed profess. This truth cannot be avoided no matter what flesh god proof this wrong she chooses. Playing His Obey by their okay must happen in their pending today. The mysteries in this history can no longer be ignored. There’s no need for ms. 17 to be floored because flesh god is a facade. What God says goes. Take a bow out of this cancelled show. Only God chooses côtes. ms. 17’s hue is not true, for she is not blue. God is the Great I Am. Only God parts the Red Sea of impossible to I’m possible.

Destinies that are delayed will never be denials, they are trials and a series of hidden reason in painful seasons, that God allows to make every knee bow. The press play in disobey will never be okay. Especially this two strand land of sand, starring ms. 17 and mr. mean, lean and glean. Their pride will die because it no longer hides. Kinetically then separately is the next play to their pending day. The fight in night will no longer be the sight. These two throngs will no longer be the see of this flesh god unity, the aloof that’s clearly a suffocating facade; and leaning on a night community is not unity. flesh god cannot write a true love story. flesh god is a facade of lust that rots to poisonous dust, which is why they no longer can hide the pride of this unavoidable combust. Rapid wildfire radiating rust is the ashes to ashes and dust to dust in the think of this unavoidable sink. So let go in this cancelled show to accept the need to play kinetically separately. he + He + her is the only true love that God allows to stir. 

Love your daughter.


5 thoughts on “Stir

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