Typewriter Series #3073 | 1.8.21

It’s been a weird journey for me when it comes to poetry, a strange ride I never intended on hopping on. I have written since I was a wee boy, never really sharing it other than with the people the poetry was written for. Sometimes, I’d share a piece on a little blog for the 15 people that I knew personally followed me, otherwise, it stayed as a release for me and nothing more. Somewhere along the way, I was convinced (and thank goodness I was) to share with broader audiences, to open up the things that felt like therapy and wounds to me, and let people see. I never, ever, intended on so many people seeing, I never felt like anyone would care. I am astounded, to this very day, that anyone anywhere cares about my little words. I am humbled that you seem to, I am honored that you choose to read, choose to follow, choose to say. One thing that popped up numerous times when I’ve actually spent time with all of you in person at book signings, randomly bumping into in distant cities, or even photographing your weddings, is that sometimes some of you find what I do brave, that it’s courageous sharing these personal glimpses into my heart and soul. I’ve never understood this, and perhaps it’s the Autism, perhaps it’s the lack of self-image I seem to deal with, but I have never felt like anyone seeing this from me is vulnerable at all, it seems like the writing of the words is, but the sharing is not. Once these words are outside of me, it’s not up to me what happens to them, where they go. It’s done, I am purged, and I feel better (for a brief minute until I am full again).

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