Canvas, Unfinished

All,
My,
Life.

I’ve felt awkward.

Even at thirty-five,
I still feel unpolished.

I don’t belong in my skin.
Someone calls me beautiful,
on a regular basis.
My son still sees me,
Through innocent eyes.

An unfinished canvas.

To me though,
My mind,
My soul,
My body,
feels ungraceful.

There’s still work to do.

I’m stumbling,
Along.
Still,
Living,
My Life,
In awkwardness.

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