My blinds are always open
Because, for some reason, Inside without Outside
My shelves are full but my library is empty
My fan never stops spinning
The carpet is stained -
makeup here, paint there
and half a dozen projects line the drawers
I bother to keep useless things
because I'm a sucker for memories
and nostalgia is my weakness
The overflowing box in my closet bears witness
Tidiness and creativity wage war in these walls -
It's either the bed or scrapbook that's made.
Open my journals and you'll see me
trying to make sense of God and life
Neat covers, messy pages
Such is the wandering mind.
Call to mind the lifelong distance
I traveled to make it mine.
You'll see that I sometimes just survive
But usually I live
I live for what inspires me in the moment,
I long to live for what higher calling keeps me here
Within these walls.
Where I live.
Where I'm here.