I’m aware this is most likely your first time hearing me.


I grew up down south among the palm trees with Mickey Mouse and a basketball hoop in front of our house.

I wanted to be Michael Jordan until I was 13 and to this day Space Jam is the greatest movie these blue eyes have ever seen.

I’d rather have a cheeseburger than fame and most days I’m called the wrong name.

I’m the second son of my father, I stand four inches taller than my mother, my hero is my brother.

Late one December I said, “I do,” to a grace-filled goddess with eyes so beautiful they could shrink giants.

And late last night I was sent a gif or a gif while half asleep next to the other whole of me.

She couldn’t see me giggling under the sheets as I watched a dog run into a glass door over and over and over and over. We’ve talk about getting a dog of our own.

And we will name him Pancake.

And I still have a hard time being present, because I’m stuck in the past and fixed on the future.

I don’t know what it’s like to live with no regrets or without dreams.

And I write poetry because I can’t sing and when I dance it looks like I’m trying to kill a bee without getting stung.

I read these words from a notebook, because I cannot memorize,

but I have become mesmerized by how ink changes a page.

I’m no Whitman or Poe, Dickinson or Angelou, Weezy or Swift.

But I write to remain, putting the pen to the paper to keep from causing a ripple and rift.

Writing: the cheapest form of therapy.

Saving my pockets singles and dimes so I can buy coffee to fuel this dream, sipping myself closer to clarity.

And I’m chasing the heels of 30 and I thought I’d have life figured out by now, but

I’ve got more questions than answers.

And all my answers create fresh questions, a constant give and take, a swirling surrounding the pounding within.

Yet, locked within, faith outweighs both, stretching me closer to forever, a restful peace growing beyond the deep.

And deep down inside, hope pumps through my veins, coursing creativity, causing a landslide of possibilities, reminding me it is better to be here together than to leave alone.

And I’ve been someone I haven’t liked, but for all I don’t know,

I know grace kills guilt, grabbing my hand, leading me to a blank page to write with freedom and New Found Glory.

I don’t have all the right words to write or say, but I’ve got a lot of words to say.

Some days I think I say too much, but most days I think I think too much.


A constant moving within, the shaking and shifting of thoughts, getting myself lost within what if’s, mixing myself up with mix-tapes of mess ups, replaying the wreckage of memories i’ve tried to lay to rest.

And I'm second guessing what I know to be true, and I know I don't know much but i've come to know kindness isn’t overrated and telling you donuts are delicious is an understatement.

I know I don’t want to die with my eyes on a screen or get stuck somewhere in between hate and greed.

I know our greatest response is often silence, and if you’re quiet enough, you might be able to spread it.

But I also know if something is beautiful we should speak it.

I know weird and wonderful have more in common than just the W.
And I know learning takes patience and patience takes learning
I know there is no shame in surrendering and I believe humility requires community.
And community is why we push through to the other side.
And I know two of the sweetest words are “welcome home”.


Well, come home and we will welcome you with arms and smiles wide.
Well, come home and we will wash the dust from your feet and give you something to eat.
Well, come home, we’ve been waiting for you.

Welcome home.


Tanner Olson