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).

I stand by what I’ve said a million times before, writing is therapy for me, and I truly do write to heal, to sew open wounds, to make sense of the constant noise I never know what to do with. I write to compartmentalize, to organize, to cathartically clear. I write because I don’t know how to say it, I write because I have so many words, so very many words, I never know where to store them all. The fact that someone else finds them, doesn’t much concern me, and I don’t know if that’s weird or not. (Please feel free to tell me your opinions on this, I am literally all ears…er, eyes.)

Brave, no, honest, yes. Perhaps, as this poem says, maybe it’s all rubbish bin quality, perhaps it’s not, I don’t much care. I write to write, what happens next isn’t really up to me. Here’s Typewriter Series #3073.

It's not brave, what I do

though some call it that,

it's not courage

if you're not afraid.

I write to heal, to sew

up open wounds

they tear when I wake.

Stitches that rip when

I think I hurt you

and don't know what

I said that caused

the pain. I write

to explain what I don't

have voice to,

to apologize to myself

for hating the noise

I can't seem to quiet.

Maybe this isn't poetry

but therapy, but diary

spilled out with line break

and syntax, maybe

it's all rubbish bin

quality and I'm riding

one giant wave

of luck and circumstance.

It's not brave, what I do

it's finding my way

out of a forest I never

intended on ending up in.

It's not courage

if you're just trying to

survive.

-Tyler Knott Gregson-

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