Retiring My Book

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I may retire Confessions of a Wallflower soon so get it while you still can. A much better collection will be self-published in June. Wishing you all hope, love, and healing. ✨

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Romantic

5

I am both self-destructive and self-loving. 
Both seem very romantic to me.

Confessions of a Wallflower, page 17

Happy National Poetry Month

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Happy National Poetry Month to you all. I’ve been feeling nothing lately like everything I do feels pointless which isn’t doing me any good. I’m currently in the process of creating my next collection which tackles about the loneliness of human existence and self-destruction, suicidal feelings, being in an unhealthy relationship, my mental illness and how I’m recovering through the art of mindfulness and overall it’s about finding hope and growth and stars and flowers and beauty and survival despite the meaningless of life and finding the meaning to my own suffering. 

Confessions of a Wallflower isn’t a book that I’m entirely proud of, and maybe it’s because I write differently now compared to my 19-year-old self, but I’m still happy that I did create this book even if some parts of it makes me cringe at the here and now. I hope you consider purchasing it to support my life as a writer/poet as I pour my soul in creating my next collection. 

To the hundreds who have read, I am deeply grateful. ❤ Love, Juansen. ✿  

On Dealing With My Own Writer’s Block

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This my writing problem: I’m indecisive with the words I want to choose. There are so many possible ways a piece of writing can manifest itself. I don’t know if I want to choose the word beautiful or lovely or gorgeous. I don’t know if I started a piece right or ended a piece wrong. I don’t know if I wrote something too early or too late. Feelings are so hard to put into words. That’s why I think it’s important to set deadlines so when it’s done; it’s done. There’s no need to play with it or jolly it up. There’s only the next poem or prose. Moving on to the next big or small piece of writing is the only way a writer can stay alive in the art of creating. It’s both simple and complicated like that.

The Architect & The Destroyer

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There are feelings inside her that don’t exist in me. She’s a very logical person, and I’m a very playful person. At first, I felt like we were alike but turns out we’re complete opposites—she thinks through things while I feel through things.

She says that I’m too young and idealistic to love her and perhaps that’s true. I am a child when it comes to love. I feel things like we’re soul mates or we both like watching the stars together and fuck that explains a lot why we’re so drawn to each other because of destiny and all that stuff.

She once asked me what love meant to me, and I said that love is the only thing that makes life less meaningless. And I held her hand and kissed it and then looked at her in the eye. “This is love,” I said quietly. And I held her face and kissed her on the forehead and then looked at her in the eye once more. “This is love,” I said again quietly.

“Love is just an illusion,” she whispered in my ear, and we made love just with our lips, and it felt like a dream for the first time that we were together. It all felt like a dream to me, but I knew that she was the one that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I just can’t explain why I had to let her go when she was the only girl who made me feel something so absolute.

“Love is just an illusion,” the very last words that she said to me when I walked out of her not so fucked up life. The very last words that brought me to an understanding that maybe love is nothing more than chemicals released in the brain that never does last forever like any kind of drug. But the thing about love is that it fucks you up eventually, and you want more of it. In good morning texts, during penetration, flowers and wandering the world together and forever.

Love is just an illusion, but it does last if you really do believe in it.

Fate

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I am a strong believer that fate exists. That everything happens for a reason. That the people we have in our lives are in our lives without accident. There is always meaning. Explainable or unexplainable. There is no such thing as luck. We are all here for a purpose. All we have to do is believe.

Confessions of a Wallflower, page 257