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A intro to who I am and a cute little game to pass on to a few other. |
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Good morning everyone I’ve officially been tagged by Jack Of Diamonds to share 6 things about myself. It’s always a bit daunting to sum up a life in 6 points, but here is a glimpse into my journey: 1. The Spark: My writing journey started in 6th grade. My language Arts teacher gave me my first “writer’s high” when she told me I had genuine talent. She believed that with a little work, I could make it as a professional, and I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since. 2. Small Town Roots: I grew up in a small community in Eastern Kentucky. There’s something unique about the pace of life there that stays with you, no matter where you go. 3. High- Flying Ambitions: Back in school, I was always active- I played volleyball, was on the flag team, and joined the Air Force Jr. ROTC. At one point, my dream was to be a jet fighter pilot!! 4. A Mother’s Heart: I am the proud mother of four amazing children. One of my children was born with Hypo-plastic Left Heart Syndrome (HLHS). Navigating that journey taught me a level of strength and resilience I never knew I possessed. 5. Overcoming the Odds: Life hasn’t always been easy. I’ve faced the heavy loss of my father and fought the hard battle of overcoming addiction. These experiences have shaped who I am and give me a deep well of emotion to draw from in my writing. 6. New Beginnings: I’m here to keep honing that talent my 6th-grade teacher saw in me. Writing is my way of processing the world and sharing the lessons Ive learned along the way. Now, to keep the “infection” going, I’m passing the baton! I’m tagging these three members to share their own six things: @TeeGateM @Magoo @Wolfkingdom |
Who’s Really Writing My Poems? I write poetry from the fire in my chest—from heartbreak, obsession, longing. Every line begins inside me, with a pulse I can’t ignore. Lately, I’ve been thinking about the questions writers often face: when someone helps shape your words, where does your voice end, and someone else’s influence begin? The Role of Guidance Sometimes we get help—feedback, suggestions, or guidance. That can be amazing for clarity, rhythm, or flow. But the key is this: the ideas, the emotion, the pulse—they start with you. The guidance should never override your vision, never dilute the fire that made the poem yours in the first place. I make every choice about what stays, what goes, and how it reads. If a line doesn’t feel like me, it’s gone. The poem only lives if it still feels raw, jagged, and human—like the heartbeat that started it. Editors: Another Kind of Influence Editors can do incredible work—helping polish structure or shape a piece for readers—but they inevitably bring their perspective. Their suggestions may shift the work, even subtly, toward their voice. That’s why it’s so important to know where your boundaries are and make sure the final piece still reflects your chest, your fire, your scars. The Difference That Matters The difference isn’t in the help you receive—it’s in who owns the emotion, the imagery, and the ideas. If the piece still feels like you in every line, it belongs to you. If it starts feeling like someone else’s vision, it’s no longer fully yours. Questions for Other Writers • Where do you draw the line between help and intrusion? • How do you preserve your voice when someone else shapes your work? • How do you know a poem is truly yours at the end of the process? For me, the answer is simple: every idea, every pulse, every line is mine. Guidance or editing can help me hear my own voice clearer, sharper, and stronger—but the fire, the obsession, the longing—they are mine and mine alone. |
| I spent a long time trying to be the right volume for people who only knew how to listen to silence. In my poetry, I’ve written about feeling like a question mark—bent and uncertain—but I’m learning that my light wasn’t the problem; the room was. If I am "too much," it’s because I have finally stopped trying to fit into the small spaces others built for me. Today, I’m not watering shadows. I’m standing in the sun I created for myself. |
| Maybe My Happily Ever After Looks Different I don’t think I’ll ever get my happily ever after. Not the fairytale kind, anyway. The kind where everything lines up neatly, where love stays, where the past doesn’t keep tapping you on the shoulder like it has unfinished business. I haven’t lived a life of a saint. I’ve been an addict. I’ve made drastic mistakes—choices I can’t undo, moments I wish I could rewind just to breathe differently. I’ve hurt people. I’ve hurt myself. And sometimes it feels like those things are stamped permanently onto me, like they’re the first thing the world sees when it looks my way. I was born a poor, white girl in Eastern Kentucky. And I ask myself all the time if that alone wrote the outline of my life before I ever got a chance to hold the pen. If my ending was decided somewhere between generational poverty, limited opportunity, and a system that doesn’t exactly leave room for detours or redemption arcs. Does where you come from get to decide how far you go? Does who you used to be cancel out who you’re trying so hard to become? I try to do good now. I really do. I love deeply. I show up when I can. I feel things intensely, maybe too intensely, but I don’t know how to be halfway about anything that matters. Still, there’s this quiet fear that no matter how much good I stack on top of the bad, the scale will never tip far enough in my favor. Like I’ve already used up my chances. Like happiness is something other people inherit, not something I earn. Sometimes I wonder if “happily ever after” is just another privilege—something reserved for people who started life with a softer landing. People who didn’t have to claw their way out of survival mode before they could even think about dreaming. And yet… I’m still here. Still hoping, even when I pretend I’m not. Still believing, on my bravest days, that maybe my life isn’t a punishment—it’s a process. Maybe happily ever after doesn’t come wrapped in perfection. Maybe it doesn’t look like stability that never shakes or love that never leaves. Maybe it looks like waking up sober. Like choosing growth when it would be easier to stay bitter. Like learning to forgive yourself even when the world doesn’t. I don’t know if I’ll get the ending I once imagined. But I know this: I deserve peace. I deserve love that doesn’t feel like a test. I deserve a life that isn’t defined solely by where I came from or who I was at my worst. And maybe that’s my rebellion— believing I’m worthy anyway. |
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