Picture a house.
Picture all the things in that house.
The hard-wood floors,
The carpets and chairs,
The drapes and doors,
Even stairs.

Now picture the people in it.
Mom, Dad, Brother, and Sister.
Did they pick your or did you pick them?

It doesn't matter who picked who,
These people in the house were meant for you.
And I hate when the house seems to disagree,
And the walls are yelling back at me.

I don't know about the other houses,
But I do know about what's in mine.
These people inside my quiet house,
I love them all the time.

I don't know about other people,
But I know about what's in me.
I handpicked every single soul that lives in this house with me.

Sometimes our thoughts can get kind of sloppy and Mom has to mop them off the floor.
Sometimes we throw our patience away on our way out the kitchen door.
But all the time, not just sometimes,
I finish every night,
Soaking all my thoughts in my gray walls,
Where white and black meet and dance down the halls.


Mae.B