Poetry and other crap in blogs

I write a lot, almost as much as I talk. I do read a select number of blogs everyday. I don't blog surf as much as I would like to. When I have been blog surfing I see a lot of stuff that is lame. Some of the lame things are blogs composed mostly of song lyrics, poems, summaries of movies, and so on. I wonder if people who always post those things are too afraid to have an opinion on anything. I mean can you really sum up everyday in a song? Surely there is something you have to say that is from your own mind, heart, or soul.

A while back I was instant messaging with a certain angry Korean girl we all love. I was talking about my life in college and other things. We got on the topic of career fields and one thing lead to another. I confessed after my dreams of law practice were dashed I petitioned to get into a senior level poetry class. I was successful and made quite a name for myself in that world. I knew I couldn't create a stable career out of it, but I didn't know how successful I was going to be either. Once I stepped outside of all that though I realized how cliche poetry had become. Poetry has become something unhappy, angst filled, seventeen year old girls write. What surprised me was that Grace was genuinely curious about seeing some of my writing. So that got me thinking, are there any people who really still enjoy poetry? Do people like being inundated with a blog full of it? Do normal people still write?

This blog is basically where my mind throws up every morning. I want this blog to be a total reflection of my thoughts and feelings. My feelings are that I don't want to make this a blog full of poetry and other crap. I'm not opposed to occasionally posting such things, but a blog should contain substance. On that note I will leave you with one of my favorite poems. Sorry to disappoint, but it's not written by me. It's a poem from Cemetery Nights by Stephen Dobyns.

Bowlers Anonymous

Here comes the woman who wears the plastic prick
hooked to a string around her waist, the man who
puts girls' panties like a beanie on his head,
the chicken molester, the lady who likes great Danes,
the boy who likes sheep, the old fellow who likes
to watch turkeys dance on the top of a hot stove,
the bicycle-seat sniffer, grasshopper muncher,
the bubbles-in-the-bath biter--they all meet
each night at midnight and, oh lord, they bowl.
From twelve to six they take it out on the pins
as they discuss their foibles with their friends.
I'm trying to cut down, says the woman who nibbles
the tails of mice. I've thrown away my Zippo, says
the man who sticks matches between people's toes.
There is nothing that can't become a pleasure
if one lets it, and so they bowl. They think
of that oddly handsome German shepherd face
and they bowl. Their hands quiver at the thought
of jamming their fingers in a car door
and they bowl. These are the heroes, these
grocers and teachers and postmen and plumbers.
They bring snapshots of themselves and Scotch tape,
then fix their photos to the pins and they bowl.
They focus on their faces at the end of the alley
and they bowl. They see the hunger in their eyes,
the twist of anticipation in their lips, and oh
they bowl--bowl and remember, bowl and forget,
as the pins with their own bruised faces explode
from midnight to six. While in those explosions
of wood, in which each pin describes an exact arc,
they feast on those brief moments when something
becomes perfect--like a curled wave, Beethoven
quartet, or the wind hitting a dandelion clock--
one of those moments when the world seems to stop
and everything conspires to push some fleeting
beauty--ripening peach or blossoming rose--
to the queer brink of perfection, where it flames,
flickers, fades, and is never perfect again.