**

I can’t sing like my sister,

pitch high high high in the treetops

Trilling like the rustle of leaves in the fall.

My voice is for showers

and for coffee in the morning.

Lullabies to younger siblings.

When you first look at me,

your very first thought

won’t be “she’s gorgeous”,

But maybe it will be:

“She looks kind” or

“I like her stylish jeans”.

My name isn’t extraordinary.

No one will write it in some book

that everyone will read

What it is, is bold and aged.

An open invitation and a listening ear.

Old English toffee and quiet mornings.

I’m no Robert Frost,

my words never spill across the paper

quite like I want them to.

Even still, there are times

when I can move someone.

Besides, the writing keeps my head clear.

I may not be everything

That I or others expect me to be,

but I think I’m doing alright.

It took me far too long to realize

that imperfect and not good enough,