When I was little,
I wanted to be a writer.
I would pour my heart out into short stories
of hope meant to build up hearts
instead of tear them down.
The quality of my existence
could be determined through pen strokes,
and plot lines, and character backgrounds.
I wanted to be a world renowned novelist
who wrote stories meant to encourage.
I never thought Iíd set my pen down,
but I eventually did.
Fast forward to the day that I do.
I set my pen aside for a chefís hat,
and a spoon.
I want to run a five-star kitchen
cooking in Paris, France.
I take up the house kitchen to cook
for the family and friends to show that Iím capable.
Iím looking at culinary institutes and colleges.
I am so sure of myself
that I build my life on the shelves of kitchen cupboards,
cutting my future into segments
on kitchen cutting boards,
my life, plot out like a quality design on a five-star dish.
My future was unquestioned
that is, until I went to my first rock concert,
and then I traded in my kitchen utensils
for concert tickets.
I filled jars with pay checks, and spare change.
I skipped meals just to save so that I had enough
for seats in the nose bleed section,
jumping in the back with people next to me
screaming from anticipation
but losing my voice in the sound
breaking through the amplifiers.
I spent lunch money on vinyl records and quality players
all while trying to make sense of my existence
through lyrics, and notes, and all of the things
that I wish I wrote, but didn't.
Now, Iím eighteen,
and Iím not sure sure of anything
except this: dreams change.
You determine what you want, and who you want to be
and then you chase it
until your feet need a break,
and you may go a million different directions,
and look at life in a million different ways,
but always pick what makes you feel whole.
Pick what ties your hope to humanity,
and your soul to the things you give.
Pick what leaves your finger prints on the glass
as constellations tracing joy along the lens of life.
Pick what makes you happy.
Thatís all that really matters.