On 204 pages of printer paper rests the first draft of my book. A memoir titled Becoming Me. In its pages lies my entire past. All of my dreams and aspirations, all of my shortcomings and heartbreaks, every moment that led me to becoming me.
It's terrifying, having all of your truths being prepared for the world to see. Will they love me? Hate me? Will all of my confessions be for naught as my book just gathers dust in the back of some abandoned library?
There is only one copy currently in print. It sits on the bedside table in my girlfriend's bedroom. Will she still be able to love me after she has discovered who I really am?
I don't know the answers to these questions. All I know is that I was placed on this earth to write. So that's what I'll do. I'll write until my lungs no longer suck in oxygen. I will write until my veins run dry. I will write until my heart beats for the last time. My last thoughts will be poetry. Because that's what I was placed on this earth to do.
The Things I Would Do For A Like
Last Night, Somebody Broke Into My Car
Small Town, Big Stars
Austin to LAX
Success Is Infinite
I Am Impatient As Fuck
Something About Existence
Completely, Fully, Undeniably Human
Uber Ride Gone Wrong
The Girl of My Dreams
Dear Beautiful Starbucks Lady
Talking to Strangers
It Gets Better