A Visit with Poet and Letter Writer Brandon Lawrence

Here is a spotlight  on one of our letter writers behind the recent book Letters Never Meant to be Read.
letters
Brandon Lawrence is a young poet, musician, songwriter, nerd, lover of all things nerd, and a hobbyist. He loves to delve into new interests as any curious human being. Brandon lives in the deep dark of Pennsylvania. We all need someone, or at the very least, something of someone to relate to. Brandon takes that approach to heart and hopes to achieve that goal with you through his letters and poetry. Below you will find a bit of magic in a poem or three.
A Knight in Shining Tinfoil Armor
Ride in from the horizon, sun glimmering off of him.
Looking chivalrous as ever, as rich a king.
Until he came closer to view, and the light had grown dim.
The horse was not a horse at all, and he had not a shield, nor a sword, or ring.
Instead he had a dog, one of great mange.
Tied to his fingerless gauntlet, bound to him by chain.
On him a thin metal, not armor, but silver and strange.
Not made of mail nor plate, full of rips yet no scratches no dings, had not one blood stain.
A man, from a far, seeming capable of the greatest feats.
Not wearing a helm, but a strange resemblance, a sort of metal hat.
Yet from personal space, not owning a pair of boots for his feet.
Looking much like a knight, but one of great shame at that.
He was a man of great respect, kindness and thanks, never asking for more.
A knight of the Templar he was not, but instead a knight in shining tinfoil.
I Am
I am the man in the shade, the man of shadow.
The monster you fear worst, devourer of souls.
Lacking of heart, of breath, no longer hanging.
Having a hunger, endless void, far from shallow.
I am, that which haunts you, glowing eyes, fearful.
Kneel and pray that as above, is not as below.
For you have entered into my death.
I am that which comes to drag, in your blood
you drown, too much to swallow.
But I am what you need, in fear.
Pain and agony, you must wallow.
Free yourself of sin, hear my howl.
Ask not who I am, for by no name need I follow.
But ask what I am, and find I am fair but foul.
I am truly a man made of monsters,
hidden beneath this cowl.
Mother Earth:
The expanse and wonder, to the love and mirth.
Brought to us, but so many lack the respect and love for her.
Her generosity endless, but our care is returned in numbers dearth.
From the sky, the mountains, plains, valleys, sands, and immense land disperse’.
From oceans, to lakes, ponds, creeks, and firth.
Our food and drink, to the very knees that hit the dirt.
To the endless reaches of space, far beyond Jupiter.
A place of infinite creation, an amazing place of berth.
That, to our mother, it gave birth.
Allowing feats of that unheard.
And she has, far beyond, proven her worth.
But we as the apex predator,
have continued to fail with repaying her.
There’s no place in this solar system, quite like Earth.
And there are no parents in this universe.
Quite like Father Sun, Mother Earth.
So we must stop our selfishness, and end this pointless nuclear purge.
We must combine our forces, create a plan to reimburse.
And do our best to save.
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A Visit with Poet and Writer Meghan C. Rynn

I thought it would be a good time to showcase one of our letter writers behind the new release Letters Never Meant to be Read. When not trekking miles of tundra to tell someone how it really is or lapping up bowls of milk with her pet panther, Meghan C. Rynn is busy with her budding writing career. Below you will find a bit of magic in a poem or three.

 

Blue Eyes

Blue eyes

Ocean blue eyes

Graze on the world as it passes

The waves crash down

Over these eyes

As they fill with salty tears

I see you close

I see you near

You hold me, the rain stops

As the last drop hits the sea

Look through these eyes

What do you?

The ocean waves crashing

Softly

Where I’m from

A small quiet town

Where cherries fall from the sky

Brothers and sisters move away

Make sure you kiss them goodbye

I’m from a place

Where we juggle clay

And practice singing about a pool all day

I’m from a yard

Where friends come and go

Where the scars on our bodies are memories

Of a time with no sorrow

 

 

 

Mon Amour

We cuddle on our rug

Watching the cozy fire

As the stars above us burn inside the midnight sky

We watch the embers flicker

Hoping time won’t pass by

Bandits whisper in the shadows

But they dare not come near

Their knives held in hand

Yet you still feel no fear

We start out talking

But then we get too shy

We type all our feelings

While the sun begins to rise

We smile at each other

And we kiss our goodbyes

As we leave this place

Our secret place

So snuggly and warm

The place we spent those long summer nights

The place our love was born

Project “Letters Never Meant to be Read” Hangover and Marketing Woes

I am truly proud of this project Letters Never Meant to be Read and I thank all of the letter writers for putting themselves out there to get it done. Kindle Version (still not married up yet on Amazon). I started all of this three years ago by writing a letter to someone who I felt did me wrong. What started as some kind of creative therapy turned into a full blown book with other great writers. I plan to do this twice a year until I die, and I often do what I say I will do, I am dangerous that way.
Someone, someday will take great notice at these efforts and WE will be able to point at the first volume with extreme happiness. Please, write some yourself and encourage others to write letters and send them in. The next batch are due May 1st, I dare you…
Marketing Woes: Any book has one problem to answer, who will buy it? The more we sell, the higher our rank, the more chance we have of showing up randomly in front of strangers’ faces and being recommended by Amazon which is what we need to have a chance at this project going viral. That is the name of the game in a nutshell. We need some initial momentum to garner more interest.
I remain unconvinced that there is one way, a silver bullet to market a book. If you have one, I will swallow that pill right in front of your face. I have been approached by many who want to sell packages in all price ranges who use Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, everything.
Please use whatever social media platforms you already use and get the word out. I am proud of this work because it is my baby, of course I want it to grow wings. Besides that though, it is a fun read, a glance at the life and time of the letter writer and very juicy.

“Dear Reader” -Send Your Letters

Have our paths crossed before this? I have loved, been in love, and certainly mistaken love for lust, or perhaps vice versa. Were we friend or were we foe? Real or imagined? Regardless, I have changed your life and you mine. Therefore, we write. I dare you…

-Marc D. Crepeaux

 

Dear Reader,

The first volume of Letters Never Meant to be Read will be out soon and I thought I would give a shout to those daring enough to send your letters for the second volume.

Have you ever wanted to write a letter to that guy or gal you brushed up against on the train? How about that lost love or the friend that did you wrong?  The family member who never really saw you? The teacher or boss who declined to see your worth? What about the person you wished you had thanked?  These are letters that the writers had no intention of ever mailing, snail or otherwise. This collection of salty rants and unspoken melodies has been curated for the entire world to marvel upon. What was an exercise of the utmost fruition has turned into something very real and offers a hard glimpse into the perspective and time of the letter writer.   Writing your letter can be cathartic and freeing.

This will be, with great hope, a continued collection of signed or anonymous letters that span all subject matter. The writers never intended on mailing them. Some are heartfelt, some sarcastic, some are funny, some are revenge in words, and some are rants. Expressions to the world or wondering what could have been can be healthy, so roll that sacred parchment in an airtight bottle and send it out to sea. Wait…

If you do have any letters of your own, send them to us, signed or anonymous correspondence will always be considered for the collection…

Send your never letters to:

lettersneverproject@gmail.com

or

Rusty Wheels Media, LLC

PO Box 1692

Rome, GA 30162

 

“Dear Prospective Employer”- A Revision

Here is a revised version of “Dear Prospective Employer” in case you missed it before. This is a letter I wrote while waiting at a job interview. I felt naked, nervous, afraid at the time, on my last thread. I did well, but I couldn’t help feel that I lost a piece of myself there in that very common ritual. That is simply because, Dear Reader, I was desperate. This article on Investopedia does a bang up job at explaining unemployment verses underemployment if you can avoid the incessant popups. This one is likely to go into the upcoming title Letters Never Meant to be Read.

 

Dear Prospective Employer,

Yes, I have achieved things. Yes, I can do your no frills job with satisfaction of everyone in your petty, cramped office. I maintain the ability to sit there at nausea, waiting for another satisfactory human to complete a mundane task thereby handing the baton to me while strutting, late as usual, so I can take the “project” that last leg before it goes to the big boss.

I want to thank you so much for peering at my resume and giving me even the slightest chance at getting a job. I have bills to pay, after all, and they keep mounting. They call for my heart to be ripped out and served on a silver platter among others in a nice long row, still pumping and bleeding for sure. We do want to avoid that. What have I been doing since my last job? I can tell you. I have been paying one bill off with another down the road to include hefty interest. I have been using plastic as if it were real money, funds I actually had. I have been screwing my future self to the wall of shame.

I perfected the art of my resume, skewing the truth here and there to get past your robot gate guards who scan lives for key words and phrases. I even paid someone with debt to make my rap sheet just so. I have fooled your coded keepers this time for sure and can only say that it is all there, see it? See all of my degrees that nobody cares about but everybody said I should get? My apologies, I have too much education for you. Do people with degrees make you squeamish? See my previous work experience, even the times when I went out on my own and took a chance? Oh, you don’t like those items either. They scream, “not a team player” for sure. I should have put something else in there, damn. I should have pretended just a little more, given myself honorary employee status during those years of failed entrepreneurship.

What happened to my past precious business ventures? Why do I no longer run that “company” or operate that personalized service? Well, I discovered, just as you know, that employees don’t care. Nobody can afford to pay anyone to care. A “living wage” is a joke, a game being played like a carrot on a stick.  Must use a fake carrot though, a real one would spoil, dangling there so long and that wouldn’t do. There was also the issue of scalability. My big plan to never talk to people like you again worked for a time. Others got wind of this success and wanted to join which caused too many cooks in the kitchen, it happens. Also, such items as budgeting for growth and payroll tax aren’t on a learning curve and my expensive degree programs didn’t discuss pitfalls. That happens too. I learned quite a bit during those experiences, much more than the idiot sitting next to you in that cubicle who eats meatball sandwiches and takes twenty six minute breaks. So why not pick me? Why not take a chance on someone who knows what life is really like?

Perhaps I am being too honest here. What I need to do is lie about all of it. I should give my buddies the heads up, give out their numbers as my previous employers, gain true status. I could even offer them a sixer to make machine or copy room noises, hustle and bustle in the background. Oh, the heights I have risen to, but now it is time to come down from my perch and do some common good for this world, do some real work with you.

Or maybe all this time and effort I am putting into writing this and a thousand others would be better spent on something nefarious? Yes, I hear that criminal enterprises are always hiring and why not take a cue from the bill collectors anyway? Maybe I should just create a real leadership role for myself. I could better spend my time reading the paper. The police beat would allow me to build a team and put my skills to better, more profitable use.

No, that just wouldn’t do. The risks are too great and what would my mom think? I suppose I should just settle for begging for that hourly wage you offer and the fringe of being by your side. I will do a good job, I swear. Not great, but good, and solid, real solid too.

I am desperate. I am alone, afraid of the future. I am naked, just as you wanted me. Take me now. I will do whatever you ask.

 

-Marc

A Letter to Yourself

In anticipation of the release of Letters Never Meant to be Read, I decided to post the very last letter in the collection of signed and anonymous letters, the one to myself. Being honest with yourself can be difficult, especially on paper. Happy Reading!

 

Marc,

Let us begin.

Is it possible that you will look back in twenty, even thirty years and feel great pride in your undeniable accomplishments? You’ve got some nerve to imagine that you have established a real thread on your life. For decades you continue to leave a little in the reserve tank, just like that old Harley you used to own that only ran a little. Even while doing push-ups for the drill sergeants, even while working on a case, even while being in love. You leave some on the table, just in case. Nestled in your back pocket is your precious, comfortable reserve.

You have yet to give it your all, just getting by is your famous motto. And sure, great things have come of this meager effort. In reality, where true great men live only for one moment of their lives, your deeds have only been good. You are always doing good, you live in the good. You peer at easy eyes in the mirror as some kind of leader of the losers, a natural king underdog and you smile. That crown is set well upon your head and has been for years. Not a crown of thorns, not a crown of jewels, but a crown of paper and rare ink. It is easier down there, with them, isn’t it? Is it not warmer and kinder to be the leader of the parade of the second class? You love them, and they in turn look up to you. You are a pancreas. You conduct a small function that helps everyone out for the common good but you can be replaced, there isn’t a long waiting list.

Being a B+ type of guy that I know you are, I find your lack of motivation to take this life to the next level draining. You settle, are a settler. Why? It’s easy in the depths. There is no rat race to be seen. Go ahead, make up for your lack of effort, you do it all the time. There are two methods which we have observed: A whirlwind of sudden brilliance from a high perch that you laze upon. See what I can do?  In all second situations, you overcome your laziness with your intellect and confidence man style approach to interpersonal relationships. You can fool all of them out there that think you are just great, think you are working so hard, have achieved so much.  You are not fooling us.

Do you honestly believe the great men of the past wasted this much time on leisure? Watching shows at will and playing computer games as some great Japanese warlord until two in the morning has become your alibi. You work all day and this is your savory routine, your reward for being such a good boy. You are a consumer of dust. You might as well suck on that cold barrel now and save the electricity or you will end up the same as everyone you know. How common can you be? How much can you blend into the background?

Sure, you can turn on the tap at any time and bleed out the poison that the crowd all loves to hear. Spinning yarn has never been a problem, only the frequency of the wheel. You think to us inside your head that this content just seeps out of your pours, so why sweat so much? Why work out if you already pour gold? Have you ever thought of where your talent comes from? It is us, you fool, all of us together in this poor, dying pouch. You are both naïve and undeserving of what little talent you have. Such a big head, you can do this any time, so why now? Why sweat it? Why work? That is because, Dear Friend, you are afraid.

Cowards accept what is given to them and fail to ask questions. They lie in the dark and pity themselves to sleep. Is that you? Could that be us? What a little lizard you are, creeping about, clinging to stalks and branches, how cool you must feel. You cower behind your shield of mediocrity with the ready excuse for failure, “well…I didn’t even try and look how far I got.”

Actually, we may have you all wrong. Wait, no… could it be? The consensus is in from the parlor crowd, yes, you are afraid of success. All this time, you pull back the last punch because you are afraid the blow might actually land. Success is your secret little vice that you dabble with, your never public after party fix. Yes, always a private drug to do behind closed doors. No real ties, nothing to connect, just a secret relationship that you hope to keep but never make substantiated. Is that why we have so many holes in our feet? Is that why we have gunpowder on our hands? Yes, you are afraid of this subtle mistress, but I tell you that We are Not.

From this moment on you have a choice. You can continue down this path of mediocrity, just as you have tended that simple flame of the past. Or, you could achieve true greatness by your own measure. Grasp that comfortable solitude of knowing that you got yours in this life without our outright help. Decide soon, Dear Friend, because there is brewing a revolt in these dark corridors. Soon we will take control and oh how everything will change.

 

-Marc