I donno. I guess I feel like writing something, and I guess this is the place to do it. All of my personal journals have been so, oh i donno, disappointing? That, and i dont really mind if people read this. or i wouldnt be typing this.

What does the title poet constitute?

Are they solutions? Do they provide answers? Do they ask questions? Sure sure sure. But more realistically, what is the purpose? To explain life or to just note it? I dont know anymore, i really dont care. but am i wrong to strongly believe that no words, no matter how strategically placed, can even begin to shed light or purpose onto life? Language, spoken or written, can not provide purpose.

It's just words.

If one's life is to be what is placed upon his paper, his life to be what he has drawn up in little metaphors and similes, is that not restricting in the same manner the high school jocks of old restrict themselves to the physically demanding world of "one more set" and "shaving off another second." These walls, whether formed by words, stadiums, fashion magazines, or concert floors are nothing but a comfort zone. It seems that people are insecure with the idea of just exhisting, it is simply too much. They section off ideals, little focuses to defend themselves from their inherent freedom. The world goes beyond your metaphor, your season record, your next outfit. It is what it is.

It is what you make it.
(So count your fucking blessings.)