Typewriter Series #3081 | 8.12.21

I’ve called myself a lotta things over the years, metaphoricized (not a word) myself in about 300 dozen different combinations. One, was dream based and visioned while I was slumbering, but I saw myself as a rain cloud, as a thunderstorm swollen with lightning and water. Thought about that a lot lately, about what it is to pour out, what it is to offer up your water to the masses, to not wonder what they think of the wetness, but just hope they know you had no choice in the pouring. I promised this pouring years ago, told everyone who bothered to listen that I write because I must, I share it because people I loved and trusted told me it just might be important to do so, that someone, somewhere, might need these silly words my brain keeps cooking up. So I poured.

At first, it was a slow realization that those droplets, those words, were falling on people all over a planet. Then it hit fast and hard, hurricane of understanding that when I rained, I rained literally all over. Somehow, somewhere along the way, people started pulling out umbrellas, people started rushing for cover, then, they stopped showing up at all. Before I continue, I want to preface this post with one statement: In NO way am I complaining that there’s been this mass exodus on the social medias, I understand that tastes change, algorithms shift and embrace other things, that often we’re punished for sharing text based images like poetry on these platforms. I get it, this is just about the exodus, and about how it’s ok that all things have a season.

Perhaps the reason almost 1000 of then unfollow each month is weariness, perhaps they are tired of reading poetry on social media. Perhaps it’s that I never went down the route of creating nonsense ‘poetry’ that was really just cliché sentences designed for t-shirts or selling massive amounts of merch. I don’t need to name names here, you know who I speak of, you know how I feel about the ‘poetry’ that they create. Perhaps I write too long, I write too much, perhaps a million perhapses, but fact remains, a mass exodus has occurred, and continues to. This is ok.

This poem, this Typewriter Series #3081 is about how ok it is, about how I wish those that leave well, about how I’ll be here, always, pouring out what I have to pour out, wishing you joy in your seeking. I’ll be here. Know this.

For those who have stayed, Thank you, a billion times over, thank you. Your support means more than I even have words for. The short spoken word for this is below, and the full podcast is here, for anyone who is interested.

Also, had a few of you ask, and the answer is: As always, if you wish to purchase a custom poem for you or yours, the button is here:

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Of the exodus I bear witness to,
am I to blame?
Are you weary of these words,
do they find you
raw from the reading?

I promised the pouring,
and hoped you had
the shelter,
umbrella against
my winds.

Go, if you must,
and find joy in your

I will be here,
if ever you miss
the rain.
-Tyler Knott Gregson-
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