I may not be gifted in painting
I may not be taught, like the masters, how to ‘properly’ create

But with my words, unsteady and scribbled, flawed and broken,
I paint canvases beyond sight.
I imagine art more beautiful than any Mona Lisa,
I create masterpieces without ever dipping my brush.

My craft is greatly imperfect, cluttered, and poorly expressed,

But still I attempt to write the words that sit waiting deep within my chest

Often I do not understand what I write,

but I must allow my fingers to scrawl each thought

For each word, each story,
is an expression of myself;

a world in all its beauty and ugliness,

and I must share.

Even if no one is listening.

I’ve been climbing
up a winding oak

It’s stump twisting and turning
I held tightly to my rope

I journeyed past the vast wooden trunk,
past tiny ant colonies, and lady bug beetles

I made my way up to the top
past thorny branches that felt like needles

I found a canopy of leaves and sunshine
as I climbed further up the tree

But my foot slipped, my heart skipped,
and I dared to look below me

I had pictured below for so long,
Imagining an endless pit of doom

How surprised I felt when instead I saw
grass and flowers in full bloom

I stopped climbing then and just let go,
No longer in need of a tight rope

I spent so long climbing
up that old oak

I forgot to feel the breeze around me,
to listen when my heart spoke.