American Idol Finalist | Majesty Rose | Creative Reject

Creative Reject

I am released into the world with a pot full of colors.


I don't belong here - I know it. 

I have tasks to carry out and I'm ignited by the labor it requires.

I carry in my hands a container of what many call creativity.

It was given to me as a gift - one that I feel utmost responsibility for... almost like gaining a child or caring for an elder. It's precious and it's mine for now.

Some seasons I notice my colorful pot seeming heavier... almost too heavy for me to carry. And when I stand in the midst of the people, I long to share. That's my job! That's what I was told...

I mix the colors in my pot.

I pour out my creativity.

But sometimes they dump trash inside of my bucket. And-- Sometimes they lean their bodies on my shoulder like I am an old, rotted tree. I am left a little tainted.

Don't they know that I'm not from here? I don't know how this works. 

Confusion is poured in my pot.

It's mixed with darker shades.

I didn't know that some earth people see colors differently... that not all of them want to see how my colors come alive. They see just a few shades of grey. They smirk easily and carry on with contentment. 

So I put my pot full of colors down.

I sit, arms crossed with feet planted on their crackled ground. 



I listen:


I learn logic and politic.

I learn rule and counterfeit.

I learn establishment and disappointment.

I learn repetition and comparison.


I am an anemic pessimist. Scared spiritless.

And soon I forget colors exist. 

They live only in dreams.


I listen:


Dreams are what they call paradise.

Dreams are what they reserve for when the spirit lies.

Dreams are not meant to wake us up.

"Dreams are for rookies"


I listen and receive what they project.

I lost my pot of colors. It was somewhere behind my man-made intellect.

I think I last saw it when they named me "reject".