so many changes over this last spin around the sun. started the year with thirteen followers and an urge to write. ending with over three hundred and the urge to write gone dead. found my voice and then grew sick of it. changed it up but the reverberations in my chest and skull still sicken me. i wrote a novel along with over a thousand poems and a smattering of short stories. occasionally even one that isn’t complete shit. managed to fool a publisher into thinking it isn’t all trash. here’s to hoping they don’t read too closely before the collection comes out.

made a handful of amazing new friends. discovered the most brilliant writers i never imagined existed. EC, Tara, River, Mush, Whippoorwill, Emje, and a handful of others that show just how bad my writing is in comparison. i would link you all but honestly i am lazy and it is effort. do yourself a favor and go read them. they are what poetry should be, embodying what i wish i could be as a writer. nothing let’s you see exactly how false your talent is than reading truly great things. maybe one of these days their brilliance will rub off on me.

i learned that my broken is irrevocable. my loneliness incurable. and giving in is my giving up. and that’s okay. maybe my dreams were a little bit too big for my abilities. it happens. the scar tissue around my heart has formed a near impenetrable armor and every time i allow a crack it just inhales agony.

as this year flops on the shore in it’s death throes i find myself under the curse of writer’s block like i haven’t felt in a long time. every word feels wrong. not a good start to a fresh year that feels like a continuation of the last couple bad ones already. but we make our own fates so all we can do is keep marching onwards and maybe it’ll all get better.

if not. welp, more fodder for the words.

in closing, i hope the new year brings all the things you want, need and deserve. i want you to know i love you, just from a distance that will hopefully be safe enough to maintain your joy.

i will see you soon, if only in my dreams. or with another half assed ode to someone that will never feel the same.

hugs and sloppy wet kisses to your beautiful faces

the poet Illiterate and your fool

me (lost somewhere in texas, alone and filled with depression looking for that Old Lang Sign 12/31/2018)