So This is Life

- In Conclusion -

I guess I might've lied a little bit. Or maybe exaggerated is a better word. But, either way, what I said in my opening poet's note wasn't entirely accurate.

I said that these poems wouldn't be "happy," which they weren't. I said they were "pain and suffering and despair and loneliness and hopelessness," which they were. I said there'd be no "inspiring moments of perseverance," which there was.

Maybe I was wrong, my flowers. Or, maybe this book didn't actually turn out how I thought it would. Maybe it was my perspective on the trial I was describing that was flawed. Maybe I didn't realize that my battle with the monster inside me is actually a "grand display of strength" in itself.

These poems were certainly dark at times; I'm sure you noticed. They were certainly raw, real, deep, terrifying even.

But they were beautiful.

My gosh, they were beautiful.

And they were inspiring, uplifting, in their own right. They took emotions and grasped them at their core, shook them into words, into tangible reality. They expressed what I thought I could never put into pages. They showed the world, those like me, that they're not alone.

And, for that, I'm more in love with this work now than I ever imagined I could be.

There's a very frightening aspect of pouring out your deepest secrets for the stranger to read. There's a sense of comfort in anonymity. Without the gift of this platform, I never would've had the courage to tell another human being of the monsters that lurked inside my own soul.

Writing poetry has been a gift to me. This book has been a gift to me. Even if no reader leaves these pages with a stronger heart or clearer mind, I sure as heck have had my life transformed. In a small way. A beautiful way. A meaningful way. A deep, raw, real, and inspiring way.

The monster's not gone yet, as the final poem in this story implies. But neither am I.

I'm fading, but I'm still here. I'm broken, but I'm alive. I'm drowning, but I still can breathe. For now. For forever.

This monster won't kill me. It won't take my spirit. It's big; it's frightening; it's powerful. But I'm stronger, braver, resolved, determined. I'm a warrior. I'm the warrior of this book, these poems.

And, who is the monster?

The monster is me.

And, if that doesn't quite make sense. Read these poems again. Read them closely. And maybe you shall see.

You, my flower, are the warrior of your own book, your own poetry, the poetry of your life, your story. Are you the monster as well? Maybe so. Maybe not.

But no matter who the monster is, what it's done, how it's wrecked you...

You're still breathing. You're still fighting. Don't give up fighting.

There's so much left in you. So much worth saving, worth fighting for.

The monsters will come. They'll roar; they'll bite; they'll steal.

You can tremble in your silence, or you can roar right back.

That choice is yours to make.

I've made my choice. Now, it's time to make yours.

I believe in you.

<3 Rea

—/—/—/—/—/—/—/—

It's dark within,

The monsters roam;

They dig their claws

Into my soul.

But in labored breath,

I grasp the light;

No, I won't go down

Without a fight.

No, I won't go down tonight.