Too often, those who save us, don’t know they do
it was my art teacher in high school
She said, “You have some good ideas—why don’t you write them down?”
I hung-out in her art class, because it felt like a safe place
I talked endlessly, and drew horrible pictures to amuse myself—all of which were original
Students would file into her classroom and see my paintings or pastels on the wall
“Who drew that?” They would ask.
I was different, and my art reflected the same
I was quiet, everywhere else, and my pictures were loud.
At the end of my Senior year, my art teacher stood-up in front of the school
and said, “Out of all of my students, Andy has the most artistic potential.”
This prophesy has been shattered, time and time, again
like broken mirrors of bad luck
but her level of belief and declaration of faith in me
has given me hope, when there was none.
The things that save us, seldom claim authority over our lives
We discover them, like a friend, that nobody knows
Those bits of ourself that are recognized
are the seeds of dreams
They are dormant, and grow with belief
nobody will buy them
we sprout into a different kind of tree