Author: Henry Chapman
This book is a mixture of life and struggles, using the mechanics of poetry intertwined with plain English grammar. I first started writing seriously in 2009 on BlogSpot.com, since then and many years later, I had found my voice as a writer. The book has an air of irony, mystery and where the writer – that’s metakes on different personas in a style that sometimes is blunt or to which I think sometimes sounds metallic in nature when oration is read from its passages; sticks to the mind like one who is awake inside of themselves. As a writer I am interested in words and its partitive formation in relation in how we think and hear to what is read.
I would like to say without being adopted by an Irish - German family in eastern Pennsylvania, the very years between my time in the navy and my untrained skills could have landed me nothing more, than to have it been too easy for me; to succeed in a career in which I would have teach myself most of what I am capable of today. Still I see nothing to admire; like thousands of other people at once, I put to it when I realized from friends and acquaintances that a short good thing could not last if not practiced continually to meet the processes of writing. About unaccountable wishes or day dreams as you would, with whom the reader is observed to a new fresh sense - in which I think about, I can only surmount that as readers you have a vivid imagination. I had a violent childhood for the most part I and friends started drugs and alcohol at an early age. But when one is fifteen and one is thirty years old their distinctly is that self-objection to finding ones way in the work, this wondrous world we live in. And since I did not have much of an education enshrined through body and mind nor had I followed that path I would not be telling something to you the reader to carry some good or bad notions about this book. So it was too early for me to gain moral purport in the 1960‘s. The Vietnam War was taking place. My brother was gay and opted to not enlist, where as I did. My cousins’ uncles and aunts did not by this strange house on long island New York, in which I partially grew up in ever have much to say about it, but with that came an unending loneliness. If nobody is living with you, leading the mind that lingering mind in which each day we wake to the joy in life and if blowing winds with hazel leafs are so wild to repose on your life some great event that only you can comprehend as only a hurtful youth can cry; that commingled innocence takes on then a life of transitional efforts to which in the unknown that person now grown moves forward too.