Sometimes, they won’t hear your music.
Sometimes, the ink will run off the page.
Sometimes, your voice will pass through your lips and through the walls; going, and going until it’s too far away.

Sometimes, you’re going to fall down and realize you’re just as bruised and damaged as the rest of us.
Sometimes, you won’t be able to make music.
Sometimes, you won’t even hear it.

Sometimes a rainy day will fill your chest cavity with a hot air balloon
expanding
expanding
expanding
until you know something wonderful or terrible is itching under your skin
but you won’t be able to let it out.

I say to this;

Keep your feet trudging forward,
let the earth sing into the secret spaces between your toes with soul and small twigs offering just enough pain to reassure you that you’re not really a hot air balloon, my dear, and you’ll be just fine on the ground.

Fill your lungs with poetry, the soft understanding that connects us with one another and those who came yesterday and a hundred years from now.

Use your tongue to make a stew, one that’s zesty and flavorful and made with words of comfort so that even when you feel far, far away, others can still come to you and find home.

Hush, child, hush. Close your eyes real tight and take a good, hard look at what you see.

You were never meant to find the light. You were meant to be.

-B