The pain dulls over the years,
As the boy becomes a young man,
And the young man decides to follow his dreams,
He runs away,
With only a guitar in his hand,
A backpack of clothes,
And his car,
He rides out West,
Like the pioneers who came before,
A musical gold rush.

As a youth grows,
Taller and taller,
Like The Cedars of my youth,
But also rougher and rougher.

To those who have known him from before can recognize him,
But to others he is a shadow of his former self.

There is however,
One thing,
That has ever remain the same.
With the instruments in his hands,
his eyes soften,
the creases easy bit,
The weight is lifted from his shoulders, And even a smile can be seen.
As he hears from the Allfathers of the Waves, Summoners of the sound.

Crash!!!!
As a boy regains consciousness,
All the boy can see is the blood mixing into the muddy water,
As the rain begins to fall.
The boy scrambles are round  the twisted wreck of the car,
From which he had been thrown from,
To find the one he loved in terrible condition.

The boy begs her to wake up, but she refuses to open her eyes,
A small trickle of blood crawling up her forehead,
As she hangs lifeless from her seatbelt.

Driving down the road,
Going much too fast,
One hand on the wheel,
The other around the shoulders of the girl he was with.

They love each other,
At least they think they do,
Their adolescence making them believe that they'll beat the odds.

A turn arrives just as the boy looks away, And suddenly they're airborne,
Just as soon as they're in the air however,
The forces of the world take hold as the car comes down hard.

The boys has aged,
On the cusp of becoming a man,
Old enough to drive but not old enough to vote.

The child has improved in eight years,
The sound comes vibrant from the boy, Although it is still a hair twangy,
And the timing off just a bit.

He has passion,
Though,
Which makes the imperfections that much better.
The sound Echoes in on itself when it bounces off the cement walls,
And the closed wooden door of the garage.

All of the boy's work producing an emotional and raw sound,
Which flails about,
Enticing others to do the same.

It's Christmas time,
A young boy unwraps a large gift,
And sees the object inside,
It has a basic color scheme,
It's strings beautiful and bright.

The boy strums his small hand across,
Summoning sound from the hollow instrument,
It's a cheap thing,
Just in case the guitar is abandoned by the boy,
But alas a bond is formed,
And the boy's life is set into motion.

Motivation seemed to be a big issue for me as a kid,
Only what had me interested would get me more actively pay attention,
But when it happened I was like a dog with a bone,
Hard pressed to give it up,
My motivation burning brightly.

But such motivation could be a double edged blade,
For flames that burn the brightest are also those that are very short lived.

It makes me wonder about you, dear reader,
Is your motivation slow and steady?

Or perhaps your like me,
Brilliant but fleeting,
The experience of discovery and newness of an activity being your real drive?

To the former,
Take a chance and be more aggressive in your actions,
May this advice bring more wind into your sails.

To the latter,
Pump the break for a second,
Take in the scenery so to speak,
Be amazed in the factors that went into shaping the events around you,
You may discover something you may have missed otherwise.

And to those I've previously left out,
Don't worry,
And wipe away that pout,
I was saving for the best for last.

You tightrope walkers,
Tiptoeing the razors edge,
Follow your gut,
For it hasn't led you astray yet.

Carry on my fellow travelers,
Your pioneering efforts haven't gone in vain,
Blaze the trails,
Climb the mountains,
And ride the rapids.