Every being has a story.
A hopeful beginning, an adventurous middle, and a tragic ending.
Stories told via ballads, film reels, ink on parchment,
or parking lot narratives disguised as a friend venting.

She saw beauty in people being unpublished stories,
a behind the scenes director’s cut on the hidden scenes of life,
quarter notes on a staff translating memories into sound,
or a series of written chapters allowing the past to survive.

She could spend hours walking through cemeteries
knowing that every monument represents lifetimes of tales,
and that six feet below are the hands which fought for her freedom
and ocean eyes that sparkled in 1941 as he lifted his bride's veil.

She tears up as she stumbles through thrift stores
knowing that every picture frame or cracked vase holds meaning,
and that a stranger could glance at this hideous green center piece
and remember an unbroken family around a dinner table beaming.

Despite her idealistic fascination with the jigsaw pieces of others,
she often questioned the plot in the story of her own life.
Has she done anything worthy of being remembered? Or Will She?
In sixty years, will her grave visitors laugh, smile, or cry?
Will he think of her when he hears ocean waves or piano keys?

Either stunning or horrific, stories cannot be altered or forgotten.
One day, she hopes that her story is something to simply adore.
A hopeful beginning, an adventurous middle, and a tragic ending.
Every being has a story. What's yours?

i have an unpopular opinion
the title there is now, call it:
musician, programmer, writer, designer, editor...
this is me. this is all me.
i'm no master at one, i'm no jack of all trades,
i'm master of some.

you see,
this thing doesn't make you who you are
you can't be defined by your careers
or even your hobbies.
they're supposed to complete you
and make you whole.
not some competition who gets what the best
don't sweat it, you have your own path

you like making music? good. you're a musician
you like programming? yikes. you're a programmer
you like writing? nice. you're a writer
you like designing? brilliant. you're a designer
you like singing? awesome. you're a singer

only you can define who you are
you're not what others tell you
you're one-in-a-million
you're human
you're you.

– billiondays

During the first month
of band class,
You can’t even make a sound,
You get tired, frustrated,
And you ask yourself why you even did it.

During the third month
Of band class,
You are at the point,
Where you get so excited
When you can play twinkle twinkle,
Without missing a note.

During the fifth month
Of band class,
You feel like it’s going pretty well,
You still know you ****,
But you still think you might want to stick with it.

The first year has gone by,
And you are definitely doing it again.
The year finished strong,
And you feel great.

Then middle school goes by,
You think you’re all that,
So you go onto high school.

During the freshman year,
In marching band,
Things get hard,
But you learn that it’s kind of like a family,
You stick together through thick and thin.

During the senior year,
In band,
you realize that you made it,
No matter how hard things got,
And you are so glad you didn’t quit.

After you graduate,
You think back all to of the
Cold, rainy, football games,
The gross band competitions,
And you know that if you were told,
To go back and perform with them again,
You would.

I’ve never loved myself enough
to love another human being.
Love is practice and I’ve
only practiced hate.
I’m a mixture of
fear and boredom.
Never understood what
could make other people
happy.
My favorite hobby
has always been guessing
what could hurt me
the most.
And then do it.
How am I supposed to know
joy and gift it?

Of age old lighters
All vast and sundry
These are what make up
My father's hobby

Stuffed into his desk
Were such novelties
He could have boasted
Twas as large as he

Regular raven
With his jewelries
His full collection
I never did see

Only when he passed
Did I lay my eyes
On all the treasures
That drawer did hide

Every size and shape
Of lighter there is
I guarantee you
There was one of his

So much like his gauds
His wondrous person
Never came to light
Til he had passed on

People frequently ask me,
“Please write this for me?”
“Can you make a character based off of me?”
“Can I be in your story?”
“Will you write a poem for me?”
And every time I get a question like that
I just want to scream,
I want to shout in their ears to
Make sure they understand that
I only write things I’m passionate about.
If it’s not a topic or a character that I am
Willing to put my entire heart and soul into,
I’m not doing it.
Please understand that this art for me is
A release, not necessarily a hobby.
I can’t take requests.
And I can’t control this passion.

Figuring out ur state of mind
has become my new hobby.