Do You Have It?

Did she ever have it?
The girl with flowers in her hair.
Dances with the moonlight.
Sings sorrow.
Sings of love.
Maybe she was.
Maybe she wasn't enough.
We hold memories of her,
Shining brightest like a sun beam.
She's gone.
Leaving those around her to wonder,
Where did the imagination go?
The glimmer of light might have been taken.
Or maybe it was a dreamless existence,
That took the light for themselves.
It's a fickle thing.
To dream in a world that's unkind.
We grasp to anything showing hope.
Then we can say...
Did she ever have it?
And she did.
After we have taken it for ourselves.
Shell became her heart.
She wasn't ever understood.
The songbird.
She knew at least one heard though.
She sang in the dark to an empty room.
Filled with only the thoughts of an even one ear.
She still dances.
When no one is looking.
When the manontany of life is so real now.
Where everyone waits to die.
She began to live.
Fly.
The dreamer.
The inventor of crazy things.
Wild thoughts ran through her like wild mint grew.
The crazy one.
It brought her to tears, sometimes.
Holding on to a secret she felt.
The world always had many no's.
But she did have it.
All along.
It was the way people looked at her.
It was as simple as people knowing she didn't belong.
Dear god, who belongs?
It's that difference that strengthens a soul.
Some people never leave that place.
Then she wonders if they ever had it?
It's noones fault.
We do the best we can.
I just would rather dream something crazy.
Then never dream at all.
Do you have it?

To Hope.

It's been a journey. From a small town to a big city of lights. From a hippie beach town called Venice. Every chapter seemingly more exciting then the next. I live for experiences that have changed me.  That give me something to write about.  These eyes are not shy to the things I have witnessed. There is a time though of true darkness.  Every great artist feels the brakes slam.  Watches the wind pick up, feels a relentless rain.  To say it's a low time is an understatement. Every artist, everyone if they are lucky will be humbled.  It might seem like what you went through wasn't worth it but there's a small piece of you that doesn't believe that lie.  Or some days you do.

I have lived from a suitcase for what will be a year in August.  Bouncing around with what feels like a fallen plan. A plan unraveling as I write these words.  I write from the room I grew up in feeling humbled.  Most days I am here other days I am my old self in New York.  The constant ache for a city that made me in a town that grew me.  To say this is a low time is an understatement. To flirt with the idea of giving up is soul crushing.  The highs and lows feel daunting.  It's like walking in a foggy forest, every turn offering some hope that the clearing brings a road. But there is no road just hope.  Maybe that's enough maybe it's not.  It will clear though because it has to.  That's what having a relentless faith does to you.  It reminds you that you were your biggest fan first.  That whatever you created was inside of you all along.  Support helps the most and it's needed for moments when the fog doesn't seem to clear. When the rain feels like nails. No one said this was easy and that's why most never take leaps.  Never fly or forget to dream when they get older. It's easy to live a simple life it takes courage to be brave.  To dream something crazy, to do something wild.

It's terribly lonely but let's not pretend that everyone has it all figured out.  We don't know what tomorrow brings but at least I hope the fog is clearing.  My humble moment in the room I grew up where my first dream began as a seed and grew.  Continues to grow like golden sunflowers under the sun, is my only hope.