The hardest thing to do, I’ve found, is to write about oneself. It’s a juggling act, to be honest about what you can do but without coming off as conceited. A middle-ground is necessary, somewhere where humility and the ego can play together nicely.

And so I endeavor to find that middle-ground.

I’m Andrew. I suppose I might label myself as a poet or a writer. I’ve never been one for labels, however. Messy things, they distract by expecting a creator to consider their audience, their target demographic. Labels get in the way of allowing a creator to simply create. So instead, allow me to throw a few descriptors out here, and whatever intrigues you most, so be it.

I’m a poet, a writer, a creator. A human with skeletons in my closet, shadows in my past and demons in my mind. They all haunt me, as they do most people, for various reasons and in varying degrees of severity. I don’t want to give them a spotlight to control my life. I also don’t want to keep them hidden away, where they might control my mind. Instead, I transform them into words, thoughts, emotions. I channel them to attain the cathartic words I use to sift through feelings, life. And after consideration and the encouragement through feedback from a number of people that have read my works, I’ve decided to lay them out here for the world to behold and judge at their discretion.

It’s a surreal thing, to take the one thing I’ve always only ever done for myself, and put it on display for a debatably discerning public to consume. I feel uncomfortable, exposed. Every instinct is driving me to never make this in any way public.

But I’ve never been one to be told what to do. So I’m ignoring those instincts and doubts and putting my work on display nonetheless.

I hope you can appreciate the darkness and flames behind the words.