quick prose

I was a kid, it seemed. Or maybe I just felt reborn. I felt young because I decided to not be afraid and put everything on the line.
I walked up from the subway near Central Park and I was immediately embraced by the old familiar smell of hotdogs from the hotdog vendors.
I could smell the pretzels from the pretzel vendor and the roasted nuts as well.

Columbus Circle was alive and well. I stood alone with my own version of perfection; I had a pair of hotdogs with mustard, ketchup, sauerkraut, and a can of soda.
I rested at the brick wall that surrounds the park and I watched the tourists walk along the street. I watched couples enjoy the romance of springtime in New York City.
I watched the horse and buggies collect their fares as they trotted off into the park, and I watched the different street merchants hustle the out of town folks from different countries and different states.

I decided to head up along Central Park West. There was a well-dressed man sitting on the corner at 61st Street with a dummy on his knee and working the crowd as a ventriloquist.
I suppose like me, he had a dream and he was willing to reach his crowd no matter what.
That’s why I love this town….and I always will.
I can always find something to relate to or someone to inspire me.

I was moments away from my first real rejection as a writer. I was an hour shy of listening to a tall thin man explain why I’ll never make it.
“You have to know what you’re doing,” he told me. “And clearly,” he added. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

Maybe I didn’t know what I was doing….and maybe I still don’t…but that doesn’t mean I should stop.

Throughout my life, there has always been someone around to say,
“You can’t do it.”
There’s always someone to tell me, “Forget about it,” or, “Don’t bother.”
But I do not write for these people. I do not write for the critics either….
I write for me
I write in spite of them.

Every so often, I run into someone with a smart comment about this thing I call art. They ask, “What are you trying to do, be the next Shakespeare?”
I tell them, “Nope. I’m just trying to be the first me.”

 “You can always do what you love to do. That doesn’t mean anyone will pay you to do it…..but no one can ever stop you.” Bobby Moresco

So write on, Poet.
And never let anybody stop you


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