About 4 weeks ago, I wrote a book.
Only 31 people have bought it.
When I cook,
usually only one person eats it (and he doesn’t typically enjoy it).
Sometimes when I post,
no one “likes” it.
When I cross something off my “gotta get it done” list,
no one claps.
I like to sing, but when I do,
most everyone covers their ears.
Despite the joy it brings me,
I’ve been told my dancing is unsightly too.
When I was younger, semi-nice people called me quirky, but their less than kind counterparts,
well, they called me weird.
I’ve always walked to the beat of my own drummer and doing such has cause most to
mock my stride,
question the presence of any beat at all
and downplay the ridiculous awesomeness that is the soundtrack of MY life.
You know, sometimes I doubt myself.
Sometimes I worry I’m making more wrong turns than right ones and that I’m wasting precious time being subpar.
But then I come back to reality and my uber-blessed present and remember that the things I do, I do for me.
You get one life.
And you can’t spend another second of yours trying to please other people or seeking their
Please your damn self,
then pat yourself on the back for the dang good job you’re doing and wake up and do it over again tomorrow and for every tomorrow that follows.
If today is the only day that you’ve got,
you don’t wanna be a “coulda shoulda woulda been.”
Stand tall and proud and be an “I did.”
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