Can years of searching end with such a simple fit?
Finally she knows her place in this world.
She recognizes the face in the mirror.
Every morning, when she wakes up
She knows exactly who she wants to be.
It’s nothing special, but it’s different from who she was.
She found the scattered pieces and put the puzzle together
Making the picture of her identity whole.
Finally, there’s some comfort and solace there.
But questions still search through the corridors of her mind.
After years of exploring and faulty impressions
Will others accept her and her means of self-expression?
Finally she’s comfortable with not being like everyone else
Everyone else tries so hard to be different.
Blending in to the masses
Except for a flair here or there
She’s content to observe and not be observed.
Hours on end, she will spend
Just reading poetry in her room of Chinese walls and Western blankets.
Melancholy isn’t depression, it’s contemplative consideration.
When flowers bloom, she twirls in her decorated skirts
And as snow falls, she finds comfort in tattered jeans and mittens.
Painting pictures in her mind, they’ll always stay hidden
For artistry is not in her hands, But you can see her heart,
In the words she writes and the photographs she likes.
Wine glasses, black satin pillows, porcelain, and foreign figurines,
In tangible representatives, her bohemian heart is seen.
Sometimes being herself is portrayed through being someone else
On a little run down stage with wooden seating and poor lighting.
Clichés of conversation over coffee are broken when she sips chai.
And her preference is just to stare at all the local passerby’s.
Sometimes she’s subtle and kinda mellow
But in the turn of a moment, she’ll be riled and lively.
After years of searching, she’s ok with this
Outrageous first impressions aren’t always her perfect fit
Artist by nature, she believes in freedom of choice
So listen intently to fully understand her thoughts and voice. | 
