Sometimes

I was late to calculus because I was looking at the sky.

The clouds kept telling me to stay,

telling me they had more to show me

but I kept walking.

So maybe my soul's all right

but my body's all wrong.

Maybe my headaches keep me grounded.

Maybe they are all the words I could never say.

Maybe they are my insecurities or my failures,

pounding against my skull,

tired of being ignored.

Maybe I'm beautiful inside and maybe I know it inside.

Maybe God didn't like the look of my face when he saw it.

Sometimes I don't feel like myself.

Sometimes I feel okay.

Sometimes the clouds and the sky are putting on a show just for me

Sometimes.

my attic

When I was eight years old
I practiced every day.

I practiced every day
and I'm not just talking about piano.

I practiced smiling in the mirror.
I practiced walking from my chair to the drinking fountain.
I practiced spelling words and flirting with boys
I practiced speaking out loud
and being unapologetic.

I practiced wishing,
wishing for things.

Wishing for an attic
or a treehouse.
Wishing for a place to call my own.
a place to grow up.
to grow out.

and now I'm here.

I've grown up.
I've outgrown
my attic, and my practicing,
and everything that used to feel like me.

So I'll move to Provo,
and I'll buy my own groceries
and I won't cry while I do it.

And maybe I'll find my attic.

b&w

everything is people

This is something I've wanted to do for a long time, and now that I'm moving out in five months I found the time.

A work in progress.  Frames are next.