I know I should be writing. I want to write, I think I have things to write about, but nothing’s coming out of my fingers. Well, except for those words. And those. And those two right there. You get the picture.
I think the big thing that’s stoppering up my fingers right now is insight. I guess you could say I’ve had one of those breakthrough days today. You know, where you see a little deeper into yourself and figure out some little thing that makes you tick? It’s been one of those kinds of days. Well, maybe just the afternoon.
The only problem with that is, you don’t care. Well, you might, but who wants to sit around reading someone blathering about how they’ve changed and why they act the way they do and blah blah blah. To me, it’s like poetry. No no, not that way.
You see, I often stumble across other people’s personal websites (like you stumbled across this one) and often they’ll decide the world needs to read their poetry.
No, we don’t.
Really.
Now, I could be biased here, as I’m not really one for poetry. Check that. I’m not one for poems. I like the poetry of a sunset, the poetry at the end of an action movie when the bad guy gets his, the poetry of a song, the poetry of little puppydogs playing in the dandelions, etc.
Pretend like I didn’t say that last one.
So I appreciate poetic things, but I don’t generally appreciate poems. I have, on occasion, enjoyed a poem or two, especially if that one that starts “Here I sit, broken hearted” counts. The thing is, it’s too easy to write a poem. Notice I didn’t say it’s easy to write a good poem. All it really takes is a pencil, a piece of paper and possibly a tiny bit of angst.
Granted, you can write a happy poem about puppydogs in the daisies, but most of the dreck out there on the web seems to be people using poems to expunge their soul. “No one understands what it’s like to be me, but if I rhyme it, perhaps they’ll see.”
Pah.
Have I written any poems? Why yes, I have. Will you get to see any of my poems? Hell no, you won’t. To me, poems are something best left written down in that battered spiral in your desk drawer. If the drawer’s locked, all the better. Especially mine, since I feel most poetic when I’ve just been dumped. No one should have to read the crap that comes out of a situation. You’re reading all of this already, why should I increase the torture by offering up bad poetry?
Of course when you think about it, my same criticisms could apply to all of these blog-type things out there in the world. But then I never said I wasn’t a hypocrite…
So to sum it all up, I’ve learned a lot about myself today and you don’t get to hear about it and I like monkeys. So there.