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  Feb 2016 105D11
Jeni B123
My poems hide in my morning cup of coffee.
In good hair days.
In nights without homework.
In the little victories of life.

My poems hide in board games while camping.

My poems hide in falling of a horse, but getting back on.

My poems hide in crazy and untraditional habits.
In rearranging and organizing my bedroom.
In summer trips to the emergency room.
In the dents, bruises, and scars that I seem to collect.

My poems hide in compliments from strangers.

My poems hide in the eyes of animals who have grown up alongside of me.

My poems hide in moments spent with my best friends.
In sleepovers in the motorhome outside my house.
In Tulip Time parades twirling my baton.

My poems hide in the embrace of a long-distance friend.

My poems hide in my parents, and in the times they are proud of me.

My poems hide in the memories I’ve made.
In mission trips where 9-Square and hacky-sack are the main pastimes.
In seashell hunting on a clean, white beach.
In being a queen in the eighth grade show.

My poems hide in the trips that I take.
In the adventures I have in ordinary settings.
In the twenty four hour ride to Florida.
In the states I have yet to visit.

My poems hide in my relationship with God.

My poems hide in all the beautiful, trivial things around me.

My poems are constantly hiding, waiting, begging to be discovered.
105D11 Feb 2016
This building is so new, and yet there are already

spills on the ceiling.

How could something so pure, so full of potential, have

spills on the ceiling?

This baffles me.

If the people inside wanted to ruin the beauty and the goodness of this place, they would spill on the floor, the carpet, or even the walls but they would*  never

spill on the ceiling.

How could this happen?

We did nothing wrong!

These

spills on the ceiling

are staring me down, daring me to run, to give up.

But  I will stand my ground

because I know that

Someday,

these

spills on the ceiling

will come crashing down. And though it will hurt, there will finally be a way out, through the hole that appeared where the

spills on the ceiling

had been.

And we can run away, where the  spills  can never

hurt us

*again.

— The End —