I've read that opinions are like assholes ... everybody's got one. Here's mine. ( Ahem, my Opinions! Not booty!)

Raised Hand

Raised Hand

I'm just gonna lay all my cards out on the table ...

I've caught myself saying things like, "I wish I was one of the lucky ones who knew exactly what they wanted to be when they grew up." - which is total crap, because I AM one of those people. I've just always been too chicken shit to really go for it.

Hi, my name is Taylor, and for as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a poet.

I have been writing rhymes since I was a kid - well, since the second grade, when Miss Schulman introduced me to Shel Silverstein and the wonder of "Where The Sidewalk Ends". I have read that book more times than I can count, and it has never once lost its magic for me.

I love the feelings I get from Shel's writing - the playfulness, the goofiness, but also the heart. My favorite life quotes have come from his writing ("All the colors I am inside have not been invented yet.") ... and my fangirl crush on Ryan Gosling grew by a thousand sizes when I realized he had a "Giving Tree" tattoo. (Le sigh slash swoon!)

So yeah - I've always wanted to be Shel Silverstein, but the me version. Always. And for years and years I have been writing little poems here and there. For family members. For fun. For the future book that I long to write.

But. I am the queen of self doubt, and apprehension when in comes to chasing dreams. I let the details get in the way. I stress over how to present my ideas instead of letting them flow out. Or I set goals that are too lofty and allow room for my perfectionism to come in and nitpick the work I do to smitherines. In a nutshell - I am my own biggest hurdle.

About a month ago I set the goal to write a poem every day. And in a year I told myself I would whittle them down, choose a few to illustrate, and submit the lot off to publishers.

That sounds good in theory, but I must have been smoking crack with that thought. A poem a day? Dude, between the 800 diaper changes, the mountain range of laundry, and the never ending chaos in my house I have no idea how I thought I could accomplish a poem per day. Too lofty, see?

Instead I have decided that, I will *try* and share a poem once a week. Online. And when I'm really lucky or given the opportunity - I'll draw a little doodle to accompany it. And while the idea of creating my very own "Where The Sidewalk Ends" will be my dreamiest dream, I think I can settle fora more simple reality ... a blog. Better my poems find their way out of my back pocket and into the ears of maybe one or two kiddos.

So here goes nothing. If you have children, do me a favor: Snuggle up next to them, use a silly character voice, and read my playful rhymes. Truly - that would be my dreams coming true. You can visit my poetry page here:

http://www.thirtay.com/poetry

Here is a poem by dear ol' Shel that in my heart of hearts I have (ego maniacally? foolishly? earnestly?) believed was written with me in mind. I'll part with my hand extended way up to the heavens ... 

When I Am Gone
By: Shel Silverstein

When I am gone what will you do?
Who will write and draw for you?
Someone smarter—someone new?
Someone better—maybe YOU!

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She's A Brick ... House?

She's A Brick ... House?

I've Got The Answer.

I've Got The Answer.

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