Wednesday, May 5, 2010

So let's get one thing straight.

I do not fancy myself a poet. Or a writer, for that matter. But my leaders at church were making me feel bad for not keeping a journal. I don't like to write! Well, technically, that's not true. I love to write. Just not in a journal. Or stories. I leave that to my sister.

But I do write poetry.

No, not the Dr. Seuss, whang-zoobler keeb-keepler cat-hat kind. My poetry (if you can call it that) is not always bright sunshine and lollipops. It's what I see around me. I'm not emo, or depressed, or think that I'm sooo deep with an outlook blacker than a punk-rocker's eyeliner. I don't see the world as a bleak place; on the contrary, to my way of thinking, the world is 90% good. But that other 10% is more obvious. And that's what sucks.

So here it is. The contents of my brain, vomited into a semi-coherent (and semi-congealed) mass of words.
The words of a cardboard poet.
It's not much.
And it's not deep.
But I like it.

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