My heart goes out to your interweb woes. But when it really comes down to it – sometimes you have a connection, and sometimes you don’t. But don’t worry, people will think you a fantastic blogger, so long as you post at least once – daily.

This poetry thing can impress the simple of mind. Example: People will think you are clever, just as long as the last word of each line rhymes. So forget flirting with alliterations, as they allegedly alert your audience to your attempts to birth the beginning of each word with a heave-ho, especially if you constantly chant to them, “Breathe, just breathe – you’re almost through it all.”

As you already know, I often slang spoken-word as poetry’s salvation; listing the slam as the best way to bring the mentally muscled together with a passionate struggle to get the microphone to translate truth into entertainment that could compete with primetime – you could score very well in a slam, as long as you keep mixing your poetry with funny punchlines.

You could try going straight-laced with true poetry and fabulous imagery, but I’m sure that you’ll find there is a lot less excitement about metered rhymes and there’s no fun when you have to match up the syllables of each line. Poetry is cannot be defined and can be defined and there are too many differening opinions coming from too many creative minds. I tend to avoid that drama as I’m getting older and I’m starting to believe I have far less time to waste.

So let’s just say there’s no such thing as poetry, because what can’t be defined certainly can’t exist – unless you have faith. Am I rambling?

I sat next to sleeping students and girls on laptops, in a room full of couches. The sun refracted off of the pinholes and scratches on the walls. People walked towards this area with their head tilted and lips twisted to the side of their face. They choose a place on a couch and suddenly become docile; so unassuming that I felt bad even glancing in their direction.

It took about an hour before I realized that the lump on the couch across from me wasn’t another cushion, but someone curled up into a ball. My bus wasn’t due to arrive for another 20 minutes. I sat with my earphones in and no music playing. The muted sounds of the crowd boomed like a warning shot that said, “Loneliness is dangerous.” I ignored them anyways.

Last week I sat and listened to several people discuss my love life like I wasn’t being cast in the starring role. It was a strange and wonderful thing hearing these folks discuss what the main character in my poem was trying to accomplish by doing this, that, and the other thing. I wondered what I was actually thinking in those moments. Maybe I was trying to build trust when I did this, or maybe I was terrified in that moment. Did I even do that, or was it something I just made up?

Sometimes, I imagine that the story of my life is being etched on my body. It starts at the back of my neck and uses my freckles and scarred imperfections for punctuation. My earphones are blown out of their comfort zone and I’m forced to listen to the amplified crowd feedback. Every muscle in my body tenses as my fingers separate themselves.

Then silence. Pure, blissful silence for the few moments before that one brave soul opens their mouth to say…

“Hello.”

I sat in a room full of couches. The sun picked up the day gently and smacked it on the ass. Something was weaving itself together inside my veins. I may not be where I need to be, but today…I felt fucking epic. Today, the writing wasn’t on the wall, it scrawled across my chest, reading: Here I am.

Heartache happens when your body suffers from rigor mortis while feeling the effects of a post-mortem love story. It starts beating faster to warm the blood, except that it brings it to a boiling point and starts aching uncontrollably. The sudden pangs you feel when thinking of a past love has something to do with this.

Was that too surreal?

I’ve been playing with the idea of heartbreak these past few days – there is a poetry slam coming up Friday (which is the 13^th), and then Valentine’s Day right after that. Being the loveable, sweet, single guy that I am…it should be a great weekend. Writing about heartbreak isn’t something I particularly do well.

I had an entry written yesterday – when I was angry. I was so incredibly upset over something, and when I went to send an S.O.S. out to someone…I realized I had lost the right. And then I continued looking and I realized that there was no one that I really wanted to talk to about my trouble.

So I threw the bloody phone at the couch at hard I could. It bounced and nothing special happened. It was a satisfying, yet sobering experience. My hands were shaking. I needed to talk to someone, I needed to scream, I needed to vent. So I did something I rarely every do when I’m that upset.

I wrote.

I wrote for a solid hour, just listing out everything that has been building up inside of me for the last month or so. You have to understand…I don’t usually ever write something that won’t get posted. Most of all my archives on my computer have made an appearance online or in an email to someone.

I don’t waste my words.

But yesterday…I just couldn’t take it anymore. I wrote for pages, and it was an almost satisfying release. It tempered my anger and relieved some of my stress. I was still upset, still am a bit today…but it’s manageable – in fact, I’m ignoring it right now. It’s nice.

I know that it’s unhealthy to keep things bottled up inside, but I’ve been doing it for a long time. And they all eventually come out anyways. It’s only a matter of time – and the right person. I know it stupid, but I have to wonder – especially in the days leading up to the fourteenth…

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