• R. E. Maynard



Flawed by my natural self, raised above dysfunction, am I a storyteller at heart.

A dreamer envisioned in a life of failed attempts at lessoning life, lifted by my every spirited affair with triumphs, which has defined my existence far too well not to be a man advantaged with such an imprisoned empathy for caring.

Feelings have occurred to me in the ways that I have felt, a life lived through a living Hell, as swell as a life worthy of living met my narrative, did I subject an arc within some conflicted resolution that has defined a life written.

My character of greater expectations resolved me ever so adventurously, as my journey has led to the depths of an Earthly acceptance of exactly how Mother Nature birthed my humbled perceptions of life’s realities. I am a product of every setting written within the storylines ever described.

Romance reached into my lonely soul, poetically soulful with a promised courtship desired in a fairing lady’s trusted satisfactions—I have spent a lifetime unequaled in a compromised state of heartaches. I lead a role where a nice guy ended a tale with an incredible gal to foretell.

A love story foretold by a lifetime of happiness and despair, so much of a relationship told through tales of a struggled psyche grown beyond a broken heart. I have loved my own demise, taught through every valued lesson for understanding changing hopeful with a life anew. I have come out less than deranged with a peace of mind worthy of a heart’s sincerities.

I escaped the tortured self-imprisoned emotions of self-abuse, to rewrite a picture-perfect life, and as self-respect wills expressions of a love worthy of depicting from a heart projecting images of such imaginative dreams, yet another flipped page turned—so does my perspectives read into a life of my very own.

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