The Jenga Masters

Growing up is constantly challenging yourself,
A constant state of feeling out of place,  in an effort to expand,
being the square peg, trying to fit into a perfectly round hole.
Always having to choose, always in the conquest of a new land.

When you've grown too tired of fitting into this mould, 

When your knees have been scraped from trying to move on, 

An old friend comes by- this miraculous being , not bound by blood nor law, yet who chose to stay.

A square hole for your square peg- sometimes on their knees themselves- telling you to hold on. 

Like the comfort of settling into your own bed after a long time away, 

They let you stay, just the way you are, not judging you for the fact that you look nothing like a fighter.

And like a Jenga master, they pull out just the right piece

and step back, quietly, while you get back on your feet, balanced, lighter.

I wonder why not enough gets written about these simple beings called friends,
Who sit up with you even when you are not at your best,
Who completely understand how weird your family is,
Even when your family doesn't understand why you need to stay up with them at night when they are stressed.

The untrained therapists-on-call who work absolutely free of cost,
The constant givers, the advisors, the jokers, the wise,
The innocent hearts that really mean it when they ask you if you are fine,
Friends, you see, are simply family, sent in disguise.