You were not made to sparkle and shine
All of the time, in a perfect line.
You were made of mud and moonlight too—
Of tangled thoughts and skies not blue.

There’s beauty in crumbs on the kitchen floor,
In socks that sleep behind the door.
In piles of books you meant to read,
And gardens full of half-pulled weeds.

Let go, dear one, of should and clean—
The polished front, the magazine.
Your sacred life is not a stage,
But a poem written page by page.

Let laundry rest a little while.
Ret tired eyes, let dishes pile.
Let silence come where plans once were,
And greet your heart just as you were.

You’re not a task to cross off neat,
Not measured by what looks complete.
The tears you’ve cried? They water seeds.
The doubts you feel? They meet your needs.

I welcome every part of me.
Even what I thought should be.

There is no shame in being real.
No guilt in all you hope and feel.
Your soul is wild, your spirit wide—
You don’t need neatness to abide.

So bless the mess, the sacred sprawl,
The paint that dripped along the wall.
The to-do list thats still left undone—
The dance you started, just for fun.

Let life be soft, imperfect, true.
Let it be shaped by love—and you.
You’re not behind, you’re on your way.
Becoming more with every day.