I think about my rage. Faith is usually the first to open the room in my mind. And this room, how sees all of God's promises. And so my mind becomes a gallery of beautiful pictures. I see a little boy that wears my smile. If long sits in the way I never have. I see a little girl with a face that best describes what angels look like. And a woman. A woman that looks like a well of joy, a basket, woven with hope, filled with everything you need to beg for feelings. The three of them, with their faces glowing and bright, grows around me like the planets around the sun. And from this picture I figure that I am everything they need. The pictures look perfect. But then comes fear. Breaks open this door I have fixed it on bread times. And for the on-dress and one time, a river of dreadful pictures burst out of my mind. I sink in its pool of negativity. I see three ugly faces, two baby's crying and a woman wearing this cast and mother passed on to her, singing the song of war, banks on seven frustration from my bitter heart and these pictures. These pictures validate my biggest fears that I cannot be better than my father's better than the main agglom of the testing. And so the test to choose the pictures I truly believe would be my future. Features in my mind as often as Sunday worship. But I hope that someday I won't just know but come to understand that my mind is mine. And that every foot I'm soft today I deceive plantains some time ago. I hope I know that I am nothing like my father's. That there's a fresh pitch ahead of me with a pen in my hand. And that the promises of God are always here to stand.