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Showing posts from September, 2017

Poetic Metamorphosis 

I've reached the ready in my poetically inclined life. At first, it was vague. There was an understanding that I'd experienced something with someone at sometime but what and when and who were far out of reach. It was an anbodies poem. I was the author but not technically the narrator. In my first book at least. But now I've finished the second. There's something different about it. I've come to terms with owning the hurt. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m a walking, breathing broken heart. And god doesn’t it hurt? Like hell. In Misfit Tales  I own it. Every single excruciating inch of it. It’s mine and I want the world to know it. I want you to know it.  I started writing as a way to purge everything I didn’t want. I used the words to mask the pain. I pretended that if I made it vague, nondescript, it wasn’t mine. It wasn’t about me. It was a lie. Every damn sentence. Because it’s all about me and you and us. It’s about the misfits and the outcasts and par

A Brief, Possibly Real Story 

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I like to think you knew what you signed up for when you borrowed my pen. You knew that ink was the same as blood to me and I spilled it often. You were aware that optimism wasn't in my nature and I wasn't fond of shining brightly. Just constantly. I conserved the coil. No use wasting it on short bursts of illumination. I made sure you knew that I was a terrible introvert. I wanted to talk, constantly. I had so much to say about nothing in particular and about everything that mattered. But I didn't. Because I was a terrible extrovert. You were made aware that I wasn't particularly good at anything. Socializing. Not socializing. Speaking. Silence. The happy medium. Whatever the hell that was. I told you. Plainly. I suppose that was one thing I was good at: brutal honesty where my faults were concerned. You smiled then. Laughed in my face. Not rudely but with great disbelief. Because here I was, talking to you, and having hope (optimism if you will) that you'd take me

Heaven (Bookstores) 

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Sometimes inspiration is scarce. Sometimes the worlds so damn chaotic I can hardly think let alone write. But then I enter a bookstore and everything quiets. I could spend hours here, in this space between spaces. I could find inspiration here, if open to it. I could think here. In fact I'm forced to.  And here's what's on my mind: poetry. I haven't written enough of it. Or at least I hadn't when this picture was taken, edited and posted on Instagram like some trophy. Look! A book with butterflies. A book with ideas escaping it in front of my eyes. I grabbed a few. Just a few but it worked. I think. You tell me.  "There are things I wish you'd tell me. Like how uninviting my backside must be when I turn to give you better access. You sleep then. Soundlessly. I wish you'd tell me how desperate my "I love you's" must sound to your certain ears. They mean more then three simple words. They are a question, a plea, a bargain. A contract signed,