Has it ever occurred to you that we're living on borrowed time? Our bones are borrowed. Our blood. Our smiles, our speech. All of these things we consider to be "I" have been lent to us for this brief life to do what we can. We can use it gently, or run it into the ground; at the end of the day, we must return it... to... [blank]. I've been obsessing over this thought lately. That none of these moments are really mine, not the laughter, not the tears, not the triumphs, not the fears. It is precious because I want to keep it all so badly, while I simultaneously know I cannot. So I write to make sense of it all: the ugly, the beautiful, the brutal, the sweet, the confounding, the inspiring. And here is my offering this Sunday night. As always, I would love to get feedback. Unusual for me, I wrote this as a rap, or spoken word piece. So read it with rhythm... "Committed" My art is so real it drips red on the pavement it pulls the lovers close as th
A place to lay my thoughts through art and word