Someone has to love them.
Why must it always be me?
Why do I love the ones
With all the ticks and fleas?
I’ll take the ramblers and drunkards,
The tired, the sick, the lonely.
One like a malnourished street dog,
All surly and bony.
The broken, the beaten
The hated and cursed.
Downtrodden, dishonest,
The god awful worst.
Creativity lives in the fragile.
A place where your skin is thin
And your armor is weakened
And you are as easily brought to rage as tears.
Music is ecstasy and becomes your heartbeat.
I remember dreams I had lifetimes ago.
I was standing at the edge of a cliff,
Clouds above, and below.
A towering leaf filled oak
Standing beside me on the precipice,
Roots bare and exposed but never falling.
We looked out over the clouds.
No bottom in sight.
Stand your ground,
Or fly.
But there is no fall.
There is no pull down,
No gravity.
No fear.
Just a wonderful view,
And a mind that has no footing at all.