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“Forgive my fingers for when they find your body they will lose themselves.”—Daily Haiku on Love by Tyler Knott Gregson
Misquotations & Sadness
It seems that my Typewriter Poem today is causing some confusion, and that confusion makes me sad and shows the nature of things that can occur on the Internet from time to time. My poem was originally an ALL Original text poem that I posted almost 2 years ago to the day. Here is the original post:
as well as the corresponding Tweet that went with it
Somehow, on GoodReads.com, someone misquoted this as belonging to a poet, Derrick Brown. Now, I am being emailed and accused constantly today of being an artist that “steals” other artists work. Never have I ever, never would I ever, and the thought that I would I find offensive. With the exception of Music, or the random amazing quotation or Charity post, I do not even Reblog on my site, in an attempt to keep it completely original content. I always have, I always will.
So, for those that stood up for me, thank you, for those that accused and attacked, I am sorry you were so quick to jump overboard on a ship that was never sinking to begin with.
How do I address this from here? Any ideas?
“There are three things I want you to learn how to say. One. "I love you" and don't just say it as an empty phrase, say it with feeling, say it to every person who comes to mind when you think of those three little words. I know it's scary, I know it's difficult, but open yourself up and shout it. Don't mumble, don't say it under your breath, when you love someone, whether platonically or romantically, it deserves to be shouted from every rooftop. Two. "Goodbye" There will be some people in your life that come in and just wreck everything, they mess up your plans, they hurt you, and make you feel less than what you are, so please learn how to say goodbye to them. But I also want you to learn how to say goodbye to even the people you want to stay. not everyone stays, and saying goodbye is like setting someone free, and it won't always come easy, and it won't always come without heartbreak, but not everyone stays, and it will do you a world of good to learn how to tell them goodbye. Three. "I am worth it." there will be waves of sorrow in your life, and you will feel as if you were the sand that the tide carries away, you will feel as if it carries away your worth it will feel like you are the left over rubble of a building that had been burned down, and you will feel less, but please learn to say these words. say them in the mirror when you have just woken up, say them when your lover turns their back on you, say them when you are opening up the refrigerator sing them, yell them, whisper them, and please, believe them. You are more than sand that can just be washed away, and you are more than just a few pieces of broken cement, please, you are worth it. ”—These will be the three bravest things you will ever learn how to say
The Poem vs. The Poet
I never wanted to be a poet.
I can still remember coming home from school
with red pen scribbling out my creativity,
greeted by mother’s silent broken smile
splitting across a household.
I never wanted to be anything but myself,
but now I wish I could spend a day
in someone else’s shoes,
mine are uncomfortable,
filled with too many pebbles,
life is burning new blisters with every step.
If I look at the back of my hands
it says I’m too young to understand,
but when I catch a glimpse of the shadow of my soul
it says these feelings are hundreds of years old.
I want to be dust, I want to be dynamite,
I want to be the moon during the day
and the sun throughout the night.
I don’t want monochromatic emotions,
I want my eyes to look like mismatched socks.
I want my thought process to be etched into my skin,
so I could duct tape my mouth shut
and people wouldn’t have to ask why I act like I do,
I can’t answer the questions that I’m the question mark to.
If I wrote a poem about the love I’ve known
the page would be blank,
paper stained with silence,
fingerprints smudged with heartache.
I want to graffiti my name across the sky,
so when you look at it, you think of me,
and if you stare at it, you need me.
I’m still trying to learn how to pronounce my name.
I still can’t say words like “trust”
or “acceptance” without stuttering.
I’ve never called myself a poet.
I’ve been too busy pretending that the sound
of my fingers clicking these keys is my heartbeat.
click click… I’m alive,
I am still alive.