Running Out of Script

Dear God, I am trying to navigate, learn to trust, be patient, confident, have faith in tomorrow as you have prescribed but I seem to often ran out of script and straight to that peculiar box. Time and again, I find myself in the river swimming, fighting against the large ocean currents that only a truck full of cockroaches can deliver. It has been a challenge, I may add. I thought I was brave, built like The Rock but like a clock, wound up caving in, flipping at sign of a hot burning pot when the pump kept going, screaming my lungs out for the world to hear, to no avail. So I wave, do the hockey pokey dance like a dog with a tail in between its legs, put the mascara on but half way through the walking machine defeat parade, I wake up from the rubble to clap an Alleluia give me something fuerte, I am still alive, can you hear me?! The road is a tad narrow, crowded, with endless curves and adjacent noisy streets but I urge you to be a wee bit understanding as I plod through the gravels, leaving a black patch on my wounded foot. Sitting at curbside, I felt the wind going by, blowing the seat cover that has been my existence, emerging from the ashes I left behind. Signed, the birdman!

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