They tell me it’s a fool’s errand
Like searching for the fountain of youth
I need to just give up and accept the truth
That writing isn’t serious and just done for fun
I’d have a bigger chance looking down the barrel of a gun?
They tell me art is a great dream
But too unsure to become reality
Unless I’m searching for my guaranteed fatality
And without connects it’d be up to fate
To determine whether or not I’d be great?
They tell me it won’t make me much money
I’d be stuck and have nowhere to go
Stuck in cement on a stagnant flow
Competing against those who want it just as bad as me
Reaching for the oxygen that I’ll never breathe?
Look.
I wake up with words on my mind
Fall asleep with a pen and a few rhymes
Spend hours on a story that will become a script someday
And not once do I get bored with thinking of things to say
And you still claim I don’t have what it takes?
I will be the specter behind every great song
The lyrical lover that lasts all night long
I will be that visionary to the stage
That lost thought process that lets the truth out its cage
And you still claim I’m not dedicated enough?
I have the legacies of Langston and Hemingway
Igniting my motivation to light my way
A whole community of artists who believe in what I do
Who were all told just like me, that they were blinded fools
And you still claim it’s futile to try?
Give me a break.
My writing is my daily bread
The one thing I constantly need
It’s what I eat, live, and breathe
And though you may not agree
And it’s clear you do not approve
I refuse to give up and feed into you.
