I was born in the 1970's of September, on what my father remembered as " the most windy of days" .
We were native Virginians whom loved the simplicity of a rural lifestyle.
Being very much the youngest of five children, I quickly discovered how to occupy my time alone,
and embrace my surroundings with open arms, imagination without a closed mind, and the need to share it
with a yearning heart.

In my youth, I suffered from severe social anxiety disorder. At such a young age I was unaware of its source, but later in life discovered it was due to bullying at school, and not being able to identify or relate to children within my own age group.
This caused me a profound feeling of isolation, but instead of loneliness, I found sanctuary and comfort in the privacy of my thoughts.

For Myself writing was not a mere love or passion.
It was within me, it was all of me, the pen was held of my soul.
My environment and one with nature were a monumental inspiration, as summer nights were filled by the sweet chorus of crickets, and if you listened ever so closely, the chime of tree frogs could be heard softly in the distance.

The days consisted of walking in tall grass, and keeping the company of a brilliantly white goat that I
named " snowflake" . I found her as a boy no older than eight years, there was a faded sign hanging in an old country store that read " Goat for sale $35" .
After pleading with my parents over hours, they
would finally agree to expand our family, and make her a member.

She soon emerged from a simple little goat that would cost thirty five dollars, to one of the dearest
friends I ever knew, remaining priceless throughout my memories. Together, we went fishing on what seemed a
daily basis, accompanied by a large black and tan Doberman Pincer we were all great friends, and thus came great inspiration.
With hopes that a large fish would arise, often times waiting, I began writing poetry in the sand with a small tree branch or finger. To the sound of river water being pushed gently by a southerly breeze, and Snowflake munching on the crisp green grass, I wrote my words while the large dog " Duke" watched beside me.

I always included a trusty Polaroid camera on our adventure to capture a prized fish, but more often, it was used for taking a photo of what was written in the sand, only to transfer it to paper upon arriving home. I remember vividly approaching my house to the smell of fresh cut grass, and hot apple pie with a hint of cinnamon not long removed from the oven. My mom had a talent for making life taste a little sweeter, and was instrumental in shaping my deep love of writing.

As a very young child she read me to sleep with fairy-tales and nursery rhymes.
They sparked a grand fascination inside me, afterward, I was overcome with imagination.
Before being old enough to attend grade school I learned to read and write, and began composing my own poems and stories. After entering kindergarten, teachers seemed impressed by my young literary abilities, and would encourage me to pursue my passion for writing throughout the entirety of my school years. I owe her many thanks for planting that seed on the surface of my mind, that has grown so deeply within the borders of my heart.

Which carries over to present day into adulthood.
Being fortunate enough to live many years of my life in the historical city of Petersburg, where Edgar Allan Poe himself walked many of the same cobblestone roads, and perhaps shared some common influences. I feel as if I'm overcome by the beauty of all things natural, and the romance in objects of the past.
All these experiences have molded my soul as a poet, and shaped the words from a heart that needs to share.

My great love and admiration for older structures and landmarks came to me at a ripe young age.
I learned through my father that an uncle of mine from generations past, was the architect of " Central State Mental Hospital" - which was the first asylum specifically for African Americans
in the United States. Upon visiting the long since abandoned building - which was home for many
in the late 19th and early 20th century - soon I realized my fascination with its appearance, how
it seemed so forgotten and lonesome. Nature began to claim once again what was rightfully hers.
Tall leafy trees had grown atop the flat rooftops, the ginger colored bricks were scattered about with moss and deep green vines. Doors and windows were tightly boarded with white, weather beaten lumber.
There was however, an opening within the courtyard corridor large enough to see between the rusty brown iron bars - that ran from top to bottom. I recall my wonderment as the day was sunny and warm, then I extended my hand and face through the opening, to my great surprise it was noticeably cool and damp inside.
The only thing in view, were two large rusty light blue metal doors on opposite ends, and an old wooden chair
that had lost its sturdiness and color to time.

I felt an immense need to hear the stories of those whom walked within the long forgotten walls, and could only imagine what life must have been like in those confines.
This is but one of many ways how a relic of the past has shown me that stories are sacred.
I love to hear them, I love to write them.

As of now in the present, life has written a path that leads me back to the days of a child. Though I have grown older, and accompanied by many responsibilities along the way, my soul remains timeless, and follows the road that life has laid before me - arm and arm with my thoughts and words.

Through the years I have held various jobs and positions in numerous fields, rock mining, nonprofit, and so on. I excelled on many fronts in the workplace, but all of my jobs had two common denominators, I always grew too depressed, and too anxious to interact with other people, even over the phone, which meant I was unable to carry out my duties successfully, therefore my termination was eventually inevitable, my writing is all that I have.

Though I am monumentally grateful for all opportunities the world has given me, I realize writing is my true calling, and I refuse to live in a world that is not my own - a world where I can provoke the thoughts of others, and perhaps arise the deepest parts of their heart and soul, with a few smiles, and a little happiness along the way.

However, times can be very difficult for an unemployed poet, there is now a sizeable lack of interest in poems by editors and magazines, therefore, in addition to poetry, I am composing a collection of children's stories.

I feel with great urgency that in the present time it is vital to send children and young people positive messages and morals. There's always a good story to be told, in from which we can all learn and grow, for young and old alike. If you are a fellow Christian, I ask you to please pray for my guidance and inspiration on all of my projects.

Thank you for reading about a little piece of me, and for your prayers.

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Paul Seay Poems

Haunted

If my stare were ghostly cold and abandoned by a smile
Would you flee my haunted soul - a stranded passersby?

Would you learn what's in my walls - exhuming the remains inside?... more »

If Life Were But A Blank Page

Fulfilling what's vacant within
As life were but a blank page
With words truly a friend
If some I could only erase... more »

The Stillness Of A Pond

Something moves a soul, in the stillness of a pond
It mirrors more than meadows; -when heavy hearts are looking on
With waves "hello" to those, while a wind stirs the calm
It ripples over our throat, reflecting time, and loved-one's gone... more »

Paul Seay Quotes

Reality could well be - without a doubt - invisible. A well built monument may now exist, but can be struck once, and destroyed tomorrow - away from sight. But a tiny strand of grass cut countless times, can live forever, - unseen are the elements that allow it to maintain, but they are alive, and undeniably real. We are much like the grass, our bodies are strands, the life inside is the element unseen, and may last forevermore; when the world scissors us away. It is nothing one can point to, it's only life, breath, and growth. All earthly, unnatural objects, spawned from a strand of imagination (life) , and reality. The monument is but an illustration in a storybook, told by the hearts and minds of artists. Therefore, reality doesn't surround us, it's within us.
Reality

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