How many times did they tell you

you’d never make it. I wrote it

down on paper just because I liked

how it sounded. And I whispered

it to myself, as they burnt the page.

The fire burnt my hand. They laughed

and told me to give it up. But those words

echoed through the streets. Heard

only by those who listened.  I wrote

it in the sand. As the tide came in

to wash it away. I sat in the sand

and made a castle. They stand on the pier

and tell me to give it up.  But those words

are carried out to sea.  So I wrote

it on the box they live in. The letters

turn to rain on their cardboard lives. I sat

there repairing the box. They passed by

and told me to give it up. But those words

bled into the dirt. And I drop the marker

in the grass, and give it up. How

 many times did they tell you you’d never

 make it and close my eyes. But the echoes

won’t let me sleep. I watch a young boy

pick up the marker and put it in my hand.

“You made it,” he says. And they write.