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" "I know this world is far from perfect.
I am not the type to mistake a streetlight for the moon.
I know our wounds are deep as the Atlantic.
But every ocean has a shoreline
and every shoreline has a tide
that is constantly returning
to wake the songbirds in our hands,
to wake the music in our bones,
to place one fearless kiss on the mouth of that new born river
that has to run through the center of our hearts
to find its way home.
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Picasso said he'd paint with his own wet tongue
on the dusty floor of a jail cell if he had to.
We have to create.
It is the only thing louder than destruction.
It's the only chance the bard are gonna break,
our hands full of color
reaching towards the sky,
a brush stroke in the dark.
It is not too late.
That starry night
is not yet dry.