This New Boy

This new boy believes.
He believes in something out of reach,
his malcontent for fine,
he wants for more and reaches out
with heart and soul and mind.

It's not enough to just have want,
the world is full of mouths.
Opened wide an sucking dry
the gives and the hand - outs.

Toil he must for in that place
of sweat and work and fear,
hides the sought out providence
of practice, skill and years.

This new boy believes.
he believes he's like those giants,
the ones above the clouds,
that perhaps he too is made of steel
and too might make them proud.

It's not enough to just have want,
he's lived that life too long,
no longer can he live in guilt,
not safe for soul's belong.

So toil he must, and patience,
it's time to make anew,
this life is meant for greater things
than giving up will do.

And maybe soon, one day at best,
when the clouds above have cleared,
the tops of glass and metal heads
look down and then will cheer,
"This new boy believed".

New to Los Angeles

It has been a little while since I wrote on here. I have been tremendously busy. I continue to write more for myself than for anything. I have just moved about ten days ago to Los Angeles. Downtown. The big city. The one I love and fear. I come as a man and as an artist wanting to bear my soul but uncertain what the world wants to see and what to show them. I am an artist and I search for the way to express myself. I am a film maker looking for a way to make my stories come to life. I am a writer who wants to bring characters into my shared world and visit them upon great and terrible devices. I am terrified. I so so intensely afraid of the unknown and yet here I stand facing it, the buildings around me now a cadre of glass and metal giants looking down from the clouds while I shout at them, "hear me!" This place is full of those who have tried, those who have failed and those who gave up, a constant reminder of my innermost fears literally paving the cement, a living detritus that covers the earth like fallen ash. Here also lies promise, providence in the form of opportunity to any who are tough enough, committed enough, willful enough to pursue their ceaseless dreams in the face of the ever present fear. My doubt begins to boil up again, brooding plasma like blood, curdled beneath my flesh just below the surface, a moment away from spilling out and taking over me. Drowning. In this thick black muck I search for solid ground, platforms with which I can continue on and find footing. There is no path beyond the road of comfort, now, it is all a journey of the self without a map. I must not let my fear be the champion that speaks loudest on  my grave, speaking soft words of failure. The only failure is in stopping to rest on the quick sand, the muck beneath my feet, my flesh. The danger is in standing still. Therefore, I must keep going, I must pursue, I must persist. For if I intend to give up, I may as well shed my clothing and allow the street to creep and solidify over my skin, forever entombing me in a bed of concrete. If that is not my end, then on must I go and push forward through my fears and failures to forge this unknown path by hand and foot and mind. Then, one day, it may be me on the shoulders of metal giants, of glass giants, and it will be my turn to hear instead of speak. I yearn for that day. I cry for it. There is no going back. I live.