Find it.

Your Art Matters.

   Whatever is brewing beneath your veins

the clock hands that make only you tick

The secret talent you have yet to tell your mother about

It matters.

The shine in your eyes when you present your masterpiece

The music that shakes below your bloodstream--that gets your worn out legs out of bed in the morning
 the ideas that keep your heart racing at night--

and you eyes gasping at night--and your soul grasping at night

they matter.

They are your heartbeats put on display as passion.

They are the sunshine that will go down in history next to your name

forget the yearbook

this is so the little boy who wants to be something thinks of you.

So the curly pigtails walking down the 2nd grade hall right now has dreams for tomorrow.

You'll be on billboards and magazines and those stupid posters in the library where celebrities pretend to read

Because you gave a voice to something that matters
Because you showed the reality TV shows that the earthquakes in the way we feel are universal,

and history will forever be grateful.

You, are the modern day Monet.

The dance the sky does when you've made the perfect play

or created the perfect concoction

the bubbly you feel in your fingertips when you hold a pen

or a ball or the strings.

The sheet music that lives on the inside of your forehead

The recipe that is bursting from your taste buds

The floor plan your feet are anxious to walk

The greasy engine your fingertips are tinkering to tinker with

the turns your calloused feet are itching to sway

the heights your shoulders are panting to reach.

they matter.

they make you, you.
they are your DNA in the universe
the perfect way to shout your fears and your hopes and your anger out
 to stop you from drowning in the abyss of what feels like an ocean.
Your art is what makes these hallways bearable, those long days wearable, it is the only tunnel that escapes the terrible. 

There will be friends, and teenagers on the edge, and crowds of people just looking to feel something

there will be dark corners to crawl out of 

and lonely winters to melt out of

and isolated mountain tops to fall down from

and your art will do that. 

I was once told lonely is healing if you  make it that way.

and you will.

The philosophies and the things that make your brain turn

and the help you give and the words you share

the pieces of your heart that you scatter on anyone who will listen

they're like shelters

and laughter for the masses

they're like umbrellas and golden grilled cheese sandwiches on a rainy day

they make    a difference.

You will be the poster child for courage

and the PSA for passion

and the little girl with pigtails will ask you to sign the picture she puts on her wall.

Your art matters.

Your poetry, whether you are spilling secrets or perfecting grammar

whether you are the Rothko or the Ruben or the Rembrant

Your poetry,  whether it comes out of your feet or your hands or your eyes-

whatever way you decide to photograph your soul-

You putting your heart into something besides your claustrophobic rib cage,
it matters.

Heaven in the air

Its days like today that get me sentimental 

The mountains disappear into the clouds and I imagine heaven is touching down on earth for a few brief moments

Like a train stop for everyone who has ever passed, like a snow-globe-peek into our world.

"Last call for earth, last ticket call!"

And our loved ones file one by one out of the white,
coming on a day long excursion to spend a little time with the lives they don't get to live in.
It's why on rainy days I like to be on my best behavior,
What if they're comparing the past they remember with the present they're observing?
I never want them to feel I've gotten lost without them.
Like I was a distant responsibility they could never dimension right.

And they're not supposed to take souvenirs 

But some angels can't let go of the things they left behind
So I'll leave out a cold can of Pepsi and pull up basketball stats on my idle computer while I blast Elton John from all angles of the house.
    and I think it's okay because we get keepsakes and journal entries and prized possessions,
and all they get are rainy afternoons, one season of the year.


And before we know it the last flight home will drop its weight across the horizon.

It's can't be time to go already..
The sky is dumping its anguish, the clouds are darker than we appreciate and the air is brushing by fast and cold as we lose our guardians to the only ride home.
because God can't give them back. No matter how badly we want him to.


Regardless of our shooting star wishes and our desperation prayers and the silent eye pleas we try to hide on rainy days.
God can't give them back. No matter how badly they want him to.