How I Use To Dream, A Coffin For Sarah, The Rose, and The Gravediggers Despair: Future titles to poems that I’m either writing now, or plan to write, so it looks like dark days are ahead. Of course I’ll probably not finish all of them, since my poetry talent is pitifully short. I assume most women feel the same sensation the first time they have sex, thinking 'yea... was I suppose to enjoy that?' my lover Poetry is just as sure to disappoint. A sudden explosion of excitement passion and energy, but all to quickly do I jot down the words does a sluggish feeling start lolling out. No cuddling, no talking, just BAM! time to sleep... Leaving me staring disappointedly down at broken up lines, and sloppy rhymes, that aren’t as easy to clean up with a Kleenex as you hoped.

“Was it good for you?” “…To be Honest… No.”

But what’s been bugging me of late is not my short pitiful bursts, but that I don’t write happy, for happiness to me, just doesn’t rhyme. Even if I’m happy, even if my every action personifies happy, like winning 10 million dollars and having sex on it, while cuddling kittens, and feeding ducks, all of which fill me with joy, and so none of which will find its way to the page. Which I guess would be fine, but it seems to me that rhyming poetry is dead, unless they have butterflies and virgin angels in them, singing show tunes, and giving Christmas presents, while floating hamsters dance around their heads. My poem The Rose is about a man who plants a rose seed in his dead wives heart, to find out if she truly loved him… I could add the dancing hamsters… But you have to stop and ask yourself…

“Are dancing hamsters really enough?”

Anyways, it’s been forever since I updated this journal, so I figured that I should fill it with something new. Apparently in my last one I was 20, upset about taking pills, and wondering when my life will begin. 23’s just around the corner, pretty regularly taking my pills, the only poems that I’ve published were happy rhyming poems, which I don’t write anymore, things don’t really change. But I do now live with my loving girl friend of 3 ½ years, and spend most my life walking around naked in our house, and I also have 2 chapters of a actual legitimate story I’ve been writing that I might post after I run out of dark rhymes. Inches and falling, what do you know, sometimes progress can actually show.