If you asked me a year and a half ago if I woudl be self-publishing (granted, quite imperfectly) a poetry book, I would have leaned back in my chair, laughed, and quickly changed topics. My whole life, I have been plagued by insecurities, and concerns and confusions about who I am, who I should be, and what it means to matter have not left my poetry unscathed by any means. For years, I kept my meager words close to me like an obituary written on a winter morning that no one thought mattered except to that one person that it meant everything in the world to.
Except that Children Of the Months isn't an obituary. It's a new chapter. It's life breathed into my papery lungs and it has brought light into my eyes, into my life, into my mind. Children of the Months entered just like the wind left and allowed me to set the candles in this room called reality aflame.
I am not saying that my book is perfect. It is nowhere near so. I dread receiving the first paperback copy in my hands as I know that it will probably look a mess and I will have to take it off the market and completely reconfigure it. The poetry itself is mediocre at best compared to what else is out there, but it is out there. And that is what matters. My work, once hidden in a dark corner because I was too afraid of the hurting that would come with people either shunning or ignoring me, which I have experienced far too many times, is out there.
And I cannot ask for more.
Children of the Months deals with love, loss, and grief, to be vague. To be more specific, I wrote it after losing several people close to me. Their stories, along with the story of losing--then finding--myself, is all interwoven throughout the seasons and the months. If you want to learn more and possibly support me on my endeavor to better myself, better my work, better my art, then please, please, take a look at it. It can be found in the links below:
I love you all, I love you all, I love you all. And know that this book loves you too.