I have this old composition book from 10 years ago that is partially filled with some really awful “poetry.” Don’t worry, I will spare you all the melodramatic pining fit for a high school student. Looking back on them this morning, though, made me realize how I can never be a poet. I am OK with this. When I was writing these emotions down, and that’s really all it was, raw emotion, I didn’t have a true concept about what poetry was. A good poem makes you think; you might never actually know what the hell is going on between those spaces. You will have an inkling, but almost never the full picture, because a good poem never reveals the whole secret. Of course, this is only my opinion. I will just stick to blogs, and extremely short stories. I will admit, however, that some of the entries within that book would sound great with some music behind them. That, is something I can do.