Typewriter Series #3075 | 3.29.21
It’s been a bit since I’ve posted a Typewriter Series poem, and oddly, it’s not for lack of writing them. I’ve still been churning them out, still been writing everything from custom poetry, which is what today’s is, to the random spillings of my altogether random mind. Today, it’s a custom poem for a wonderful woman that reached out and wanted a bit of her story told. I had a blast writing it, as I always do, and the challenge to take bits and bobs of someone’s life, swirl them around, and hopefully spit out something meaningful and recognizable, is an intense one.
It’s an odd thing, posting these, as it seems the trend has been turning so much towards easier to digest works, that all social medias are bombarded by short poetry, that people just don’t have time for length. Who knows. I just know I’m still writing, and I’m going to keep sharing with you, if that’s alright.
To love is to lose,
but it is the aftermath of loss
that pulls the net
from below our tightrope feet.
We are such heights
without the grace of safety,
we are the aching understanding
that the further we feel
the more it will hurt.
One foot, two,
left foot over right,
don’t look down but
forward. Arms wide
to hold more than balance,
but the world as it
spins.
Look at me,
from where you are,
look at my stillness despite
the winds.
I would fly if I fell,
and I know you always loved
a winged thing.
-Tyler Knott Gregson-
Also also, if you know anyone who’d be interested in this newsletter, please, please share it with them. It’d mean the world.
How can I ever thank you for this?
I write to heal.
And when I faced the loss of my dad I dreaded writing about it. I knew in my gut I had to. And I wrote about the pain, I wrote about the anxiety that came after it. I wrote about the tangible fears.
But I circled around the feeling of loss, of despair, of loneliness. I acknowledge the wound, and walked around it.
Out of the blue I realised that this had to be the theme of the custom poem I’ve been meaning to gift myself with. I burst into tears when I realized that.
I thought “who better to write if than the man I’ve read countless poems from? That moved me so many times?”.
And then, when I had to give you material, I had to write. Imperfect and blunt, I spilled it all out.
Having you write this made me write it out of me.
So thank you for being a conduit, for turning my random blabbering into something that I have now inked on my skin and on my mind.
Thank you for being the amazing creature you are, for your work, your words and, most of all, your heart. Thank you.
Grief is such a heavy thing that it's hard to talk about its weight and not feel crushed. And here you are, giving it wings. Wings to be something more than just pain, but to look up and see love taking flight. As a griever for so many years of my life, I appreciate this 💜