The Really Real

Everything I write is real.
All I have to do is see the real world.
The hard part is, people keep trying to build a world in front of it.
Block out the truth. Block out beauty.
And replace it with the safe, the fear, and the simple.
I try to tear all that down, or peek through the cracks and the gaps.
Look around corners, or under rugs.
Turn around suddenly, in case it’s hiding behind my back.
And there it is. The real.
I smile and reach for a pen… a pencil… a writing pad.
And capture it.

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