what famous smells like

like raining bricks i ran for home. the taste you can't get out of your mouth. the feeling you can't get off your skin. the impact made has blown me out of the waters of my own feeble existence. and i scream and grasp for a handle of reality. one place i pray i never land is in the vines of this sub-reality called fame. its one thing to be 'known'. it’s another, horrible thing to be known for 'forgetting where you came from'. i have sprung a new love for the friends and loved ones that keep me grounded. that remind me i am STILL just a punk with bad teeth and worse skin. bad friends and worse enemies. normality at its best. and i love it, like rain loves gravity. a literal count of 'millions' of people currently know my name, and what i like for breakfast etc. there’s nothing like making 2.7 million new friends. there’s nothing like letting in 2.7 million strangers into your house for a meet and greet. and maybe some tasty triangle sandwiches. not in thousands of million years would i have imagined being where i am at this exact second. even sharing my thoughts with literally thousands. years ago, i settled with the possibility i may never be given the privilege with chasing after and possibly even accomplishing my dreams. i found a job. i started building houses. an excellent job. a difficult job. there is much honor in hard work. i was proud to do what i did. to bathe in my own sweat and to grind under the boiling sun day in and day out. i found happiness there. days went by, months. i found an opportunity that has turned into an opportunity of a lifetime. and there has been a choice presented in front of me, construction, or music. many people find themselves doing something they love, but i believe few have the opportunity to follow after their dreams. i've tasted the drug that is my audience. and i am so very addicted. the stage is my new home. my new drug. i've tasted blood and am hungry for more. for the opportunity to show the world what i am capable of and to reach as many people as possible by my music. as i cradle the infant that is my fragile dreams in my arms. i whisper into its ear sweet lullabies of my own colorful imagination. in hopes that it grows and one day bears the fruit of my humble desire. that will one day be known to you so obvious and yet so discreet like the mist in april. i pray i never let go of the grip i have on reality. of the sweet smelling normalcy so beautiful and opposite to the somewhat destructive grasp fame can possess. yet i stay true to my dream. to my desire. to my passion. and walk that narrow line of aggressive gratefulness. the vines of fame grow swift, grow cunning, and at any point can strangle the very breath of my humility. i will make my self remember where i came from. make myself remember what its like to have the shit beat out of me. to be embarrassed in public eyes by feet and fists. and to remember i will never be far from that feeble creature that relies on nothing more than the comfort and love of friends and family to survive. 'in this great future you can't forget your past', no matter how miserable and groggy are the days you have survived, they are still the days you came from. and are the days that have made you what you are this bright day. never forget.

"what famous smells like"