Yeah
I may not be all that cool
I may not be old enough, may not know all the rules
But at least I can think for myself and be real
I don’t have to hide from the people or live by the mirror
I can decide for myself what is good and is evil
Huh, as if age could really limit my feelings

I think about the big picture, not focusing my eyes on little TV screens but rather projections on giant white sheets.
I like to think of the arts as a mirror, I put stuff out in the world that I see unclear and I hope to look down at it spread on the floor and then feed it to others, whose pallets are bare.

It’s hard to know what to make of my mind
So many words flowing through my head spinning a web that traps every thought and wants to make it a song.
Hearing things I don’t understand, and yet wanting to explain them to others,
To put them delicately on a page and hold it in front of their face, to point to the story and tell them: “Listen, these are emotions that people can feel.” “Listen, this is the reality for people less fortunate than we.” “Listen, these are fellow human stories.”
And they’ll read those poems and listen to those songs and lift up their faces to me when their done and they’ll ask me so sincerely with concern in their tone,
“But child, how do you know?” How could you possibly write like you understand what mothers and abused children and the homeless and criminals can.

Whoa.
Well I guess I’ll look you straight in the eye, put down my pen for a moment and sigh.
Then I’ll give you an answer that goes something like this:
“I don’t really know, but I want to understand. And that curiosity is what drives my pen. The things that I’ve never experienced I still know exist. Just as the drought is unfamiliar with the rain, I can interpret reality without feeling all its pain. So it doesn’t matter whether it’s happened to me, I learn through stories of my community’s different realities. And from their truths I’ll digest them through my heart and present them, not as personal tragedy, but as human connectivity.”