Treat my first like my last, and my last like my first And my thirst is the same as when I came…
….
This isn’t technically my first post. Honestly I thought, for a while, about this…thing. Anyway.
Poetry is a dying art form. I don’t really know that. I don’t read em much anymore. But back when I used to write poems all the time, like daily, I became a proud member of poetry.com. Google me. I even entered a few contests and was among the 1,653,646 or so distinguished poets chosen to have my poem read at a special awards show (thank you). As the show was being held in some far away place like D.C., however, I couldn’t fit it into my schedule.
It used to be something that comforted me, those horrible poems I wrote. But I loved them. They didn’t have to make sense. Just had to be beautiful. It got me out of something. Reality, I guess.
So here I am. Here we are. I’ll probably not make sense a lot, here, but in my senselessness, make sense. I’ll talk pop culture, post poems (old, new, by me, for me, for you!), spark discussion and…well, I want to write short stories. Mostly, I just want free expression. That’s what writing is in its essence. Like those new shoes you just bought and can’t wait to wear, I love it. Like first-day-of-school clothes you iron the crinkles out of. This is just a room to me. Somewhere to go. One that you people happen to be in. it’s not supposed to be anything…
I want to write a novel.
