My Prayer & My Hope
My vocal cords are too damaged for me to perform live the way people imagine. I rely on software to help me speak and sing without severe pain. I can speak and sing, just not loudly because of the damage, but I do use tools to clone vocal samples of mine, to change them and add vocals. Because I want you to hear yourselves in the poetry. I play my trumpet because it’s one of my favorite instruments that doesn’t hurt, and I strum on my guitar while I still can, but as I grow with age, the damage to my hands becomes more apparent. The shaking and the pain never stops, and to this day, it’s a reminder of what I survived. A friendly, painful reminder to everyone: rubber mallets still break bones.
My adopted mom taught me the keys of her favorite instrument, the piano, a sound I love so much. But I also use AI tools and other audio editing software to add instruments that have physical representation in my life. The violin… I loved so much those strings. My biological mother used to play every day, bright and beautiful. But the beauty faded from my life because, as the beatings were happening, between the screams, between the pleas of a child broken, as my world faded in and out of consciousness, between gasps of air… the violin played loudly. My mother, though not my abuser, tuned my screams out with the violin, did nothing to stop it. She chose to stand by him, she chose my abuser, my father, over me. I don’t blame her, though; she was a victim to his rage too. He never hit her, but I did live in a very loud house. They would fight, he would punch walls, smash everything not nailed down, and then take his physical rage out on me instead of my mother. And when he raised his hands toward my younger siblings, I would step in the way or provoke him. Even when I was bloody and broken, I would provoke him, so his gaze would turn back to me. It was dumb, it was dangerous, but I would make those choices again if I had to. But now, I will never hear her strings again, and she will never know how much I truly miss her.
Between the trauma I have lived through, the injuries my body still carries, and the way my autism, ADHD, and schizophrenia make overwhelming attention physically and mentally painful, being on a stage in front of crowds would do more harm than good. What I can do, and what I feel called to do, is share my poetry, my beliefs, my reflections, and my vows to help those who hurt, those who feel unheard, unseen, or lost. That is where my heart is strongest.
One day, I hope to take my family on the road and not perform, but sit with my brothers and sisters face to face. I want to listen to people speak from their hearts, let them unload their burdens without judgment, without hate, only love, acceptance, and presence. I want to stand beside the people my poetry resonates with, read with them, hear their stories, cook with them, feed those who have less, clothe those who need warmth, and build community the way I believe we were meant to.
My wife and I run our own small carpentry, handyman, and cleaning business, and we try our best to follow the Red Words in everything we do, and we act with a servant’s heart towards all we encounter. We take only what our family needs, and the rest goes back into helping our community. I do not monetize my poetry. I release it freely so anyone, no matter their situation, can listen and hopefully find comfort, healing, or even just a moment of peace. That being said, I will get some sort of kick back from the streaming platforms, but I have no clue what that will look like. I haven't received anything so far. And when I do, it too will go back into my community.
I am grateful for every person who listens, every person who feels something in my words. That alone is more than enough for me. It is my peace, so Thank you, to all of you.
💚JoshM