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 pariahs. It’s about all the walking, breathing broken hearts and their story. 

And here I am, one outcast to another asking you to read my faults, my fears and my failures. Read them and know we’ve all got them. 


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