This is not about love.

I can't think of anything else I've ever been asked to contribute to, although I'm about ninety-nine percent sure Jon asked everyone he knew, so, I really shouldn't feel particularly honored. But, I'll probably be spittin some personal shit on here. I write late at night in a tiny notebook that folds open like a letter, with an ancient-looking world map on the cover in all sorts of browns and golds. No one has ever read any of my shit. I think this blog is actually a pretty cool idea, but, if I write anything, it's gonna be some personal shit. Everyone is going to have to deal with that.

That being said, I'm going to write something now. This is a poem with no literary elements, no rhythm, no stanzas, and in complete prose. Is it a poem, then? Probably not. But, I am going to call it one, and being its creator, I have the understanding that I can use full artistic interpretation as deeming it Just Poetic Enough to be a poem.

I really don't know why I ever let my body do what I want it to. "It seemed like a good idea at the time" is a phrase that I've used to justify just about every bad idea I've ever had. But most of the time, it doesn't seem like a good idea at the time, and I fully acknowledge how horrible of an idea it is. Then I think, "Oh well, it's a learning experience." And I do it. Like last night. Like two weeks ago. Like last month. Like last summer. Like last year. Like two summers ago. Like three years ago. The common denominator, ultimately, is my lack of self-respect. Which is a complete lie, because I happen to have a great deal of it. But after each time, it seems to have burrowed itself as far back in my conscience as is possible for a personified self-respect to do. I guess it could be worse. It could be ten instead of three. I could have permanent consequences. Brain damage, a hospital visit. But I don't. Instead, I have the gift of internalizing, analyzing, and just before I'm about to really figure myself out, I stop. And push all of my progress into the far back of my mind. Or, I scratch it down on paper and shove my tiny notebook that folds up like a letter back far, far under my bed.

I just realized more people might read this than I had initially figured. OK. I'm going to stop now.