Yes, there’s something different about me now.

When I lost all of my hair six years ago, I was in the middle of jumping my life’s tallest hurdle. I gained so much since that journey began. I gained back confidence, security and love for myself.

And recently, over the last year or more, things happened to make me forget all that progress.

I want them again. I miss that proud girl.

When my hair began growing, I hid it behind a wig because it made me cry to see it coming in much darker than before. The sunshine on my head had decided to reappear a little overcast. When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t recognize the person I saw. It made me sad. It represented a lot of things I had lost in life.

That muddy brown shade stood for struggle.

When it finally reached my chin, I decided I could begin going without a wig. That was a huge step, because for 18 long months, my blonde wigs were my safe place. But before I could abandon them, I had to have a stylist mix up bowls of bleach. I had to look like me. I had to feel like me.

But the old me wasn’t me anymore. You never are the same after seeing life’s battlefields firsthand.

After six years, I have decided to toss my security blanket and embrace whatever it is that is supposed to be. For the first time in my almost 40 years of life (sans one spring break in college), I am a brunette. 

You probably think it’s silly to worry or talk so much about hair. It’s only hair to you. But to me it is my soul, on display for the world to see. It became a mask for pain. And for so long, I misinterpreted the color of my own strength.

I wrote once about how a blonde wig saved me.  And it did. Funny how things are ever-evolving.

I have taken the symbolism of that muddy brown hair and changed its meaning. Instead of struggle, it now represents authenticity to myself.

I am not afraid of what lies ahead, despite all the cards dealt to me through this world of ups and downs. In the last year, those downs have been plenty in several categories. It has been more than one person should be given in such a short time, but I have handled it with as much grace as I can muster. I pray the Lord keeps supplying me with His amazing kind.

I have overcome far more than these things, and so have others, I remind myself.

I am me. I am beautiful. Blonde or brunette. Green or pink. I feel that now.

God has numbered every hair on my head and dried every tear I have shed.

Today, tomorrow and forever.

I will let my mane flow and my strength roar like a hundred lions. Even when I am smiling to hide pain. Even when I can’t control something.

Let go. Rise up. Work around the unexpected. Learn to embrace it, even if it takes six years.

Yes, there is something different about me now.

Maybe it is my hair color. Maybe it is the increased height of the wall around my shattered heart.

But maybe it is because I finally realize there is courage in not trying to rope the winds of change, but letting them swirl around me.

Like a dandelion, I will float in the breeze.

—–

Let go

((Poem by Erin Hanson))

Hold on, hold on, hold on, they said.
You’re a dandelion in the breeze.
Look at what those winds of change have done
To all these autumn leaves.

Hold on, hold on, hold on
This big wide world is not for you
Hold on for long enough
For the last gust to dance on through

So I held on, held on, held on
They said that’s how you know you’re strong
But not until I wilted

Did I notice something wrong.

I thought holding on was bravery
But when the winds of change do blow
Sometimes it’s even braver still
To let go, let go, let go

 

My sweet friend Tuesday Dickey at Gypsy Snips is the kind of hair stylist everyone should have. She doesn’t just “do hair.” She gives her heart. She listens and she is empathetic. She understands that it isn’t all about what a person looks like on the outside. She knows just what to do and say so your inside glows. She understands that it is all connected, and that even the most confident people have their valleys. Thank you, Tuesday, for always being someone I can count on to help me see beauty hidden in myself.

Because I wished to live deliberately


This morning, I walked down the sidewalk of my favorite street in America.

Home. Main Street, Cleveland, Oklahoma, USA.

I strolled down the sidewalk painted with tiger paws as I waved at friends through storefront windows. South Hill was in the distance — the cross lit up and the giant Stars and Stripes waving in the wind.

Nothing new about that scenery since I live here, except I was walking to work at the Cleveland American.

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Some things just make sense, right?

And small-town journalism always makes sense to me.

For at least the last 10 years or so, I have freelanced for my small-town weekly paper in addition to my job in the city. The newspaper’s publisher has tried for several years now to lure me away from the Tulsa World and Channel 6 to give the American a boost full-time.

I always put it off because the timing wasn’t quite right. 

Good thing timing always comes back around.

Processed with Snapseed.

When you have the choice to do anything or go anywhere you want, but you choose comfort and familiarity — that’s not a lack of courage. It’s an abundance of love.

I may be going from 400,000 people reading my words to 4,000, but that doesn’t matter a lick to me. I just want to do something that matters. I don’t say that to take away from any of the other opportunities I have been given over my career, because I truly have had the greatest platforms for amazing companies, and people I love and respect still work at those beacons of journalism.

But sometimes, something is so obvious to your own soul that you have to say a prayer and shout YES.

Working for a wonderful family I consider friends and passing lifelong acquaintances on the sidewalk every day is a huge positive. And for the first time in 20 years, I have weekends off, no swing shifts, and I won’t have to work around the clock during severe weather or while everyone else is enjoying holidays with their families. I will have a 9-5 life and get to spend more time with those I love. I now will be able to put in more time with the nonprofit I founded, blogging and making jewelry. I will get to experience life like folks with “normal” jobs get to do.

Most of all, I get to write stories I want to write, about the people and places that matter the most to me.

No morning pitch meetings in an attempt to be the one small-town story that gets reported in the evening news. No key demographics. No “hot zip codes.” No “Internet gold.” No sweeps. No story limits. No millions of other things on a checklist a day that take away from storytelling, which is what I love to do most.

Now it is just stories – long and short and happy and sad and silly and important. Community journalism is the only place you consistently can get that kind of coverage of a small town.

While they have their own strengths, TV newscasts are only 17 minutes, and big papers can’t cover every town in all 77 counties. It’s impossible.

Community papers are the backbone of the news pyramid. They are the ones documenting history in towns that don’t have stories sexy enough to draw attention from the bigger outfits. But those stories mean everything to the people who reside there and in towns like them.

I’ve freelanced for the American for a decade, stepping in to help when my schedule would allow. I’ve also done so when my schedule didn’t allow because I believed in the product and wanted to lend a hand. But now, it is my goal, as the new associate editor, to take a load off the publisher so he can focus on other areas of running the publication. As the publisher, he has many duties that go unnoticed if you aren’t in the business.

Sheila, Natasja and Caleb will continue offering instrumental support in the roles they have perfected over time. The place wouldn’t run without them. And I will do what I can to help pack the paper with more content every week.

In return, I hope you will see the added news and appreciate the effort by all of us. You can do that by renewing your subscription or picking up a copy at the store on a regular basis, or most of all, advertising your services. All those things ensure that the newspaper — the oldest business in Cleveland — will continue recording history and life as it unfolds in Pawnee County. While other outlets are important supplements that help us all be informed of the state, nation and world, no other entity except the Cleveland American will tell you about matters important to Cleveland, Oklahoma, just like a newspaper has been doing here since 1894.

Like when I worked in the city, I’ll still be writing about the kind of news that makes us cringe when we have to hear it (or when we have to report it). I’ll also keep records at city council meetings and school board meetings, watching your tax dollars at work. But I’ll be helping to make sure you know about the chili supper and the score to the big game. I’ll make sure your kid gets in the paper for making the honor roll and your grandma is mentioned for her 100th birthday. I’ll write features about the lives of people who make up our river valley – the farmers, ranchers, police officers, oil patch hands, nurses, business owners, clerks, mechanics, waitresses, moms, dads, retirees and veterans.

That means so much to me because those people comprise a town full of friends and neighbors I’ve known my entire life.

Those people are home. Those stories are home. And that feels really good.

And believe it or not, after five years in the TV world, it feels really good to have my shellac manicure stained with newspaper ink again, too.

While some might think a cityscape view is pretty unbeatable, I beg to differ. It’s beautiful in its own way, yes. But through my eyes, you can’t beat a small-town newspaper under your arm, walking down tiger paw sidewalks with a view of the cross and flag atop South Hill in Cleveland, America.

Home.

Because, like Thoreau, I wish to live deliberately.

 

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Silly girl, tears don’t put out wildfires

My family always has been my refuge.

I was blessed with good examples. As a child, I was blessed with food on my plate and parents who insisted we eat a home-cooked supper together, at the kitchen table, every night.

I was blessed with a roof over my head.

I was blessed with a grandpa and daddy who built that home with their blood, sweat and tears.

Five years ago this week, however, the tears falling were mine.

I leaned against the end of the house, in the driveway where my brother learned to ride his tricycle and where my sister and I practiced our dribbling drills and cheer routines and would wave at high school boys driving past on the county road.

I leaned against the garage. And I cried hard.

Then I heard my Grandma Peggy’s loving and wise voice:“Brandi Lynn, it doesn’t do any good to cry. Now straighten up and quit it. You quit that right now.”

She handed me a box of items my mama wanted to save and told me to take it to the car.

She was right. Tears weren’t productive. The flames in the pasture across the road were nearing the neighbors’ house and moving at a rapid pace toward us.

As my brother was climbing on my parents’ roof and wetting it down, it seemed like we were up against Goliath. A little garden hose against a merciless opponent.

I felt defeated.

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As a journalist, I try to have the utmost sensitivity for the people I write about. I’ve lost sleep over other people’s struggles. I’ve taken notes as I watched people sift through soot or tornado damage as they searched for heirlooms. I’ve sneaked into a newsroom bathroom stall and wept after talking to someone about their mom’s cancer battle. I have sat shaking in my car after interviewing someone about brutal domestic abuse. I’ve sobbed alone because I don’t want to have to write about someone’s crime or bad decision.

And when interviewing a mother who lost a daughter to a tragic accident, my wall of professionalism fell. Instead of retreating to privacy, I just cried alongside her. Still, every Labor Day weekend, I remember Jen’s family.

For about 15 years or so, I’ve helped report the news. From Big 12 Championship games to school board meetings to murder trials, I have been busy scribbling shorthand, detailing life as it happens to everyone else.

But on that day of the 2011 wildfire, neighbors were praying, firefighters were against all odds, and my extended family drove from more than an hour away to help.

News helicopters circled overhead. Fellow reporters stood at the property’s edge.

I was in the story and not writing it.

As much as I pride myself on being a compassionate journalist, it’s much different when your pains are first hand instead of second hand.

It may be only a house. It may have insurance and it may be replaceable. My parents may be able to carry on just fine if a fire were to destroy it.

While material things aren’t important, the experiences are.

As the blaze danced on, I had a flashback to times I’d deliver water jugs or sandwiches out to daddy and grandpa or sat on a sawhorse and dangled my legs as I watched them work harder than I’ve ever seen any two people work.

I thought about how my parents would time our sibling leg races or watch us catch fireflies or play with us in the yard — made-up games or real ones — every night like we were a chapter in an Ozzie and Harriet biography.

It was the house that daddy and grandpa built, but it also was the house that built me.

Watching the fire rage out of control, a pit in my stomach increased as it crept toward a poor and unprepared defense. For a moment I leaned again — on a tree. I remembered when I was a kid and daddy brought home what seemed like a billion trees for our new 3-acre yard, which at the time really was an extension of our pasture and in need of a lot of TLC.

It was raining that day, but we had to plant them before they would die. Rain coats and galoshes in the mud, we planted those suckers all day, and I thought it was the most horrible experience of my short, little life. I muttered under my breath.

Torture to a preteen.

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But as the fire grew five- or six-stories tall just 200 yards away from the house full of my memories, I leaned against that tree and nearly lost my legs from under me.

I cried thinking about how I hated planting it years ago and how I didn’t want it to burn.

I thought about how I would plow over the little runt tree on the southwest side of the house every summer when I mowed the yard to earn my allowance.

“Bubba, do you ever pay attention?” daddy would ask me what seemed like every week.

On that day five years ago, ash raining from the sky and heat radiating off the prairie as the flames raced across it, I was paying attention.

The grass wasn’t in need of a lawn mower. In fact, it was so dry, brittle and brown it could have been December instead of summer. The Oklahoma drought was a monster, and the blades of dead grass were eaten alive instantaneously by growing fire, likely caused by the careless toss of a cigarette.

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And my brother, with his measly garden hose, was climbing on the back porch and wetting down the house while other relatives used the sprayer on the tractor to add a moisture barrier to the ground.

We didn’t stop. The firefighters, who were dwarfed by walls of towering flames that were engulfing cedars and bales of hay in nanoseconds, didn’t stop either.

We all kept on trying to outsmart the Goliath standing in our midst. We kept working diligently — not with tears, but with hope and lightweight garden hoses and a barren pond. We did it all while praying for heavenly reprieve. A shift in the wind, some rain, something.

We got a little of both in the knick of time.

The firefighters were able to stop the inferno mere feet from the neighbors’ house, and the house across the street, the one that built me, was saved.

As everyday struggles of all types continue to come in this life, sometimes I catch myself leaning and crying. Sometimes I feel helpless to the roller coaster. Confused. Alone. Mistreated. Outmatched. Smaller than David with a slingshot.

But then I straighten up, determined not to give up, and I go after those giant flames with my puny garden hose.

I pray.

I rise from the ashes.

Then I become the fire.

The shift in the winds of circumstance surely will follow.

 


(This column also was published on Aug. 10 in my hometown newspaper, The Cleveland American, for which I often report as a special correspondent.)

 

 

A first kiss under a tree. Now he’s forever 14.

If there was one thing I could bank on when I was a kid, it was that Jason would be on my front porch, waiting for me to finish my supper so we could play basketball.

It was like clockwork.

Every day, Daddy came home from work at the same time — nearly to the second.

Mama would have home-cooked goodness ready 30 minutes later. Then we’d all sit down together and eat.

As long as it wasn’t raining or snowing, my neighbor Jason would be sitting right past the screen door, ready for a game of H-O-R-S-E.

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#OKLegacies: The standard of grace and hope

It’s time for another anniversary of a dark day.

“The Oklahoma Standard” has guided me in many things throughout my life. Most of all, it has taught me that if you look really hard — grace floats to the top of the depths of pain.

Below is an editorial I wrote for the Cleveland American three years ago, a day after the 2013 Boston Marathon bombing.

The Oklahoma Standard sort of took over my mind that day, so I started writing.

Watching the news come out of Boston served as a reminder of OKC. It was a reminder of hopelessness and of pain.

But even though grace is tough to come by during times of confusion and anger — the 168 souls that perished on April 19, 1995 still teach us grace every single day with their brave Oklahoma spirit still very much alive in the loved ones they left behind.

And the countless compassionate people who led our state through the tunnel and toward the light — then and now — keep our eyes focused on carrying that grace forth.

Here’s that column on Boston from three years ago, which I think is fitting for us on this anniversary of when Oklahoma City was terrorized by cowards.

God bless the 168.


Rescue hope by choking out the hate
By Brandi Ball

Published: 4/17/2013, The Cleveland American

What happened in Boston on Monday rocks my soul.
Bombs placed in a crowd of people, only to incite death and destruction?
I heard someone say afterward: “Bad has always existed. It’s not hard to believe this happened. It’s actually pretty easy to believe it. People are just evil.”
While evil is a concept that dates back almost to the inception of good, I still gasp with disbelief when things like this happen. Because no matter how much tragedy is in our world, I still believe in the good.
I believe that kindness and love reign on this Earth, no matter how much evil tries to encroach.
McViegh blew up OKC, bin Laden blew up NYC, and people all over this world are killed by hate every minute. There are unfeeling people and racists and bullies and people who live to see others suffer.
And, yes, even knowing all of that, it still jolts my soul when an intentional act does harm to others.
Perhaps that’s just my hopefulness taking root, but I always want to be stopped in my tracks with a “this is unbelievable,” look on my face when it comes to seemingly malicious matters. Because the minute I become accustomed to an idea that evil acts inherently occur in my world, that is the moment goodness begins to lose the battle.
I don’t ignore the bad. I’m very aware of its existence. But when we find it easy to believe people can callously take another’s life, that is the moment we feed oxygen to the fire. When evil becomes routine instead of anomaly, that’s when evil begins to take bigger breaths and grow and reproduce. And that’s happening right now, this week, while folks’ hearts are hardening, because constantly being on the outside looking in on tragedy is getting too painful.
My heart is hurting. I overwhelmingly trust in good and believe, on all levels, that it outweighs evil. But some days, in some places like Boston, it wasn’t strong enough. My heart is shattered because I’m disappointed brotherly love can’t always be the victor.
Instead of choosing hatred for those who do evil acts, let our hearts be softened by the heroism performed by clergy, first-responders, police, doctors, nurses, volunteers and even innocent children who are dropped to their knees in prayer.
Why? Because the alternative is too risky.
The only other option will ensure we become caught in raging flames of those evil fires. We can’t be trapped in the backdraft.
Through all the noise, never forget that things of beauty and acts of understanding and kindness are happening in all corners of this Earth. In every country. In every city. In every village. And no matter how many times evil happens this world over — no matter if it’s women being persecuted in the Middle East or genocide in Africa or murderous drug lords in Central America or dictators stealing the dignity of their countrymen or guns being shot at innocent schoolchildren or theater-goers or bombs being set off in a cheerful Boston crowd or an Oklahoma City daycare — I will still be in disbelief, time and time again.
It’s OK to be sad. I am, and deeply so. But take solace in knowing that for every one hateful coward, there are a million-plus good shepherds of society… male, female, young, old, black and white and every other shade of complexion.
We outnumber them.
When bad happens, my heart still will waver in its beating upon the announcement. My soul still will search for a way to write it off as a dream, even though it isn’t possible or logical. And my eyes always will search for those who, instead of flippantly saying, “people are just evil,” are already at work trying to choke out the hate and water the garden of kindness.
Good will win. Honor will prevail over grace.
We can’t succumb to a belief that hate cannot be overcome.
Love is alive.
But we must keep nourishing it or else we also are guilty — not of murder or of evil, but of apathy.
We will be guilty of allowing people to die in vain, all because we forgot the strength of goodness and hopefulness when they stand together as one.
Never forget to look for the grace.

 

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My “Oklahoma Legacies” series is dedicated to chronicling life in my great home state, because ol’ No. 46 makes my heart beat pretty steady and strong. Every person and every place has a story — past and present. These are Oklahoma’s. Click here to see all the posts in my #OKlegacies series.

The time my hair fell out and I grew a pair of wings

Because sometimes the inspiration to rise from the ashes, squeeze lemonade and soar like eagles comes from the unlikeliest of people and places.

I posted on Facebook this morning about my “bad hair day.”

I did it mostly because I don’t mind making fun of myself. In fact, that is one thing I can say I am good enough at doing I should be earning a professional paycheck for it.

We must try not to take ourselves too seriously.

I was given a boost from some construction workers this morning. Keep in mind those guys were working in Tulsa, where they have so many potholes to fill, they likely won’t have time to look at women for the next 25 years.

The potholes basically worked as beer goggles as I went by, my hair a nest under my disguise of a ball cap.

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Fighter. Champion. Ironman.

Dear Baby Brother,

You have trained for this moment for seven years. We all have loved you and believed in you for the nearly 25 years since you took your first little breath.

As you prepare this morning for the biggest challenge of your life and to reach a level only the most elite of athletes attain, know these things and meditate on them.

The nervous moments ahead of competition are normal, even for Olympians. It’s OK to have them, just don’t allow them to win over precious space your head. Nervous moments mean you understand the adversities. They mean you not only want to slay the beast, but also that you respect it.

As our man Rocky said: “That’s how winning is done.”

Because you are ready. You are prepared. Say that to yourself as you walk to check in.

“I am ready. My body is ready. My mind is ready. I am prepared. My body is prepared. My mind is prepared.”

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How a blonde wig saved me

From a very early age, I had hair that would make even D.J. Tanner swoon. My blonde mane was a Candace Cameron/Farrah Fawcett hybrid. I was a blonde Brooke Shields.

Well, maybe not. But I sure felt like it.

The women at church would ooh and ahh over its thickness. My friends would express their jealousy. The ladies’ restroom was always a spot where the good-natured hair envy flowed freely. Strangers in line behind me at the grocery store would ask to touch it. It was as if, in a crowded supermarket, my hair was the equivalent of a pregnant tummy. People would invade my personal, intimate space just to cop a feel, all in the name of compliments. My hair was shiny, wavy, thick and bouncy. It was the one thing my teen angst couldn’t deny. Self-esteem has always been clearly perched atop my head.

It was my badge of confidence. No matter how I felt about my naturally muscular thighs or the amount of concealer it took to cover that creepy vein under my right eye, I always had great hair to drown out the beauty critic who lives inside my soul.

My hair was everything to me.

Until I got sick. Until I started carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. Until the stress became too much. Until all my hair started falling out.

Until I had to buy a wig.

Now my badge of confidence is honey-blonde synthetic fibers, stamped with a Raquel Welch label.

I am still losing enough hair to make Donald Trump a toupee. Daily. Something had to be done. I needed a day of renewal in more than one sense: With my sick days making their way to the rearview mirror, my doctor finally released me to return to work. But I couldn’t interview people for the newspaper with hair that seemed to jump out of my head and onto anything in its path. Judi’s World of Wigs to the rescue. Except that day, the greatest loss to stare me in the face was not my formerly lustrous locks. It was when an executive at my company left a voicemail letting me know that I would not be welcomed back after my leave of absence.

He fired me.

My mission was altered just like that. I now had to find something to cover my sick, mangy-looking head because, for the first time in years, I was an out-of-work journalist who was hitting the job interview circuit in a bad economy. The economy doesn’t care if you’ve won any awards, gotten any scoops, or even if you are a friendly person with a reference letter from an ESPN news editor or a minister.

When I first walked into the wig shop, I was shaking all the way from my toes up to my bald spots. The woman at the counter looked like Flo from Mel’s Diner, which did very little to allay my fears. As she smiled and walked about the store, it became clear to me that Dennis Rodman would have looked less inconspicuous wearing the same strawberry-blonde short stack.

So I cried. I was convinced that buying a wig meant that I, too, would end up looking like I stepped off a cheap ’70s sitcom.

The first one I tried looked like a squirrel attached to my crown. Scratch that – it looked like a dead squirrel attached to my crown.

“Flo” saw me crying. She walked over and kneeled next to my beauty shop chair. She gave me an “It’s OK, Hon” pat on the back and, with a straight face, tried to calm the situation. Very gently and sweetly, she leaned in and whispered, “Can you tell I have on a wig?”

Crickets.

Um, ahem.

I put on my polite face and said, “You have on a wig?” She cackled and snorted and looked so proud, because she thought she was fooling everyone into believing it was real. So I laughed. My mother laughed. Everyone laughed. Flo thought she made me feel better about buying a wig, but really, she made me feel better about the entirety of the situation. Flo helped me realize that it was what it was, and I couldn’t do anything about it. In the darkest of times, laughter is God’s nectar.

After what seemed like 50 Eva Gabors and Raquel Welchs later, I found the one. It looked surprisingly similar to my own hair’s thickness, cut and color. So I did the only logical thing. I cried again.

For the first time in four months, my tears were those of joy and of healing.

Don’t underestimate the devastation of hair falling out. Sure, it will probably grow back to its former glory in a couple of years; I even have a few seedlings sprouting up. But for a woman – a young, vibrant, happy, single, career woman – hair loss is a tragedy worthy of a Daniel Defoe novel.

I’m convinced, thanks to Raquel Welch, that my new mass of curls will give me the strength to be a modern-day Robinson Crusoe. My life has been shipwrecked by illness and job loss and medical bills that have reached six figures. If the shoe fits…

But just like Defoe’s Crusoe, I’ll craft art out of mud. I’ll plant crops without a plow. I’ll find a way to build a house with only items I find in my wilderness.

My wig is already a good start on the foundation. It already has given me more comfort than I could have imagined. Plus, it doesn’t hurt to keep a photo of D.J. Tanner on the mirror, either.

Oh, and the world and its obstacles? Kiss. My. Grits. Because I have a head full of doubt, but I’ve also got a road full of promise.

“Head Full Of Doubt / Road Full Of Promise”
Avett Brothers

There’s a darkness upon me that’s flooded in light
In the fine print they tell me what’s wrong and what’s right
And it comes in black and it comes in white
And I’m frightened by those that don’t see it

When nothing is owed or deserved or expected
And your life doesn’t change by the man that’s elected
If you’re loved by someone, you’re never rejected
Decide what to be and go be it

There was a dream and one day I could see it
Like a bird in a cage I broke in and demanded that somebody free it
And there was a kid with a head full of doubt
So I’ll scream til I die and the last of those bad thoughts are finally out

There’s a darkness upon you that’s flooded in light
And in the fine print they tell you what’s wrong and what’s right
And it flies by day and it flies by night
And I’m frightened by those that don’t see it

There was a dream and one day I could see it
Like a bird in a cage I broke in and demanded that somebody free it
And there was a kid with a head full of doubt
So I’ll scream til I die and the last of those bad thoughts are finally out

There was a dream and one day I could see it
Like a bird in a cage I broke in and demanded that somebody free it
And there was a kid with a head full of doubt
So I’ll scream til I die and the last of those bad thoughts are finally out

There’s a darkness upon me that’s flooded in light
In the fine print they tell me what’s wrong and what’s right
There’s a darkness upon me that’s flooded in light
And I’m frightened by those that don’t see it

————-

Brandi Ball is now an unemployed journalist who is living and blogging in Oklahoma.

Email: brandiball.ok@gmail.com

Resume: https://www.linkedin.com/in/blball