I write because...

Nothing can compare to a sweet summer's day,

wading in the murky pond that my parents hate.

It is out back,

tucked neatly away

in a small wood,

with trees that grow,

but do not move,

and birds that sing

completely off-key.

It is not clear, but it’s beautiful.

And I feel good

soaking up blessed sunshine,

though I am trudging through the mud,

Listening to the laughter,

And the wailing,

and wondering,

what the hell I'm doing here.

It's not clear, but it’s beautiful,

It’s not comforting, but it’s true,

and each day I find that I'm taller,

That my arms can reach farther,

That I can bask in the light,

and there's something to hold onto.

And I know I will find beauty here,

so I keep going,

even if my feet get muddy along the way.