The Reluctant Dreamer Sneak Peek: And I’m So Tired

I have a poetry book that will be coming out soon, so I wanted to take the chance to share a sneak peek with you all.

The Reluctant Dreamer is a collection of poetry co-written by me and my spouse. I was trying to write love poetry, but something about it felt flat. Then my spouse took a look at it, we ended up re-evaluating, and then I suddenly had a co-author. This book is essentially our love story. We’ve been through some dark and terrible nights of the soul, and it took a lot of love and acceptance to get to the point we’re at today. It’s been a journey.

Here’s the back blurb:

Love doesn’t always come as the perfect ending to a romance movie. Sometimes it comes in the middle of the darkest part of your life. At the moment you feel most lost, someone finds you, looks deeply into your soul, and whispers, “You matter.”

The Reluctant Dreamer is a collection of poems based off the real love story of the married authors. The poems show the two struggling to accept both love and themselves as they find their place in the world.

This collection of poetry uses a wide variety of both rhyming and free verse poems that fit together perfectly in a reflection of the bond between the two unique writers. The authors take a serious look into what it means to love and be loved, and show that you are never truly alone.

Enjoy the poem!

And I’m So Tired

I’m so tired, I want to melt into the floor.
Sound is a blanket made of needles.

Once, I terrified myself by pretending I had a whole house,
but I ended up falling in love.

You were the one who took risks.
Give me back magic and making a house with you.

Give me back the tiny red chairs, the warm clothes that still smell of softener,
sticky bologna with the crusts peeled off, and yarn wrapped in circles and stiffened with glue.

Wonderbread life moms still put on ruffled aprons when they pull out flour,
distracted by a documentary—the eggs corrode holes in human skin.

I’ve had enough of lies. I’m only looking for someone
else’s failing lack of punctuation.

Someone almost killed you once, passing a cigarette
between pink sparkled nails and, like, what even?

This is the gradual and eternal expansion of
our universe—the soul, the wisp of white smoke.

My brain fills, like a water balloon stretching
until it pops, leaving fleshy chunks behind.

And I’m so tired.


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