I don’t know how to write about myself and my experiences, only those things which I pretend to feel. Poetry, as one may call it—though I feel it is justifiably an overstatement in the least—seems to be that such outlet. It has become for me a safety net of undisclosed feelings overtly expressed for the world to read and consequently acknowledge that there lies some deeper meaning or torment within. I write to pose as a writer. a poem becomes a new identity of self evaluation and unleashed emotions that spurt forth the words that so cleverly disguise that which I feel, wish I felt, and write about—as if the words and, more so, myself, were being psychoanalyzed by experts whose sole desire was to help solve the mystery that is Shaun Henry—those things which I neither feel nor of which I truly have an authoritative stance to say I feel. So, in bare essence, I write in hopes that one (someone, in fact anyone) may read and assume [a fairly well educated] opinion based on the false impressions that I offer like free samples in a supermarket. However, ironically, hardly anyone ever explores my works and so my attempts at recreating my identity by altogether presenting a different façade fail miserably with the words that form them. In a roundabout way, I have said nothing pertinent. My intent [here in this paragraph] was to describe that what I write is not untruth but a preconceived perversion of ideas and thoughts constructed into a structure of deeper meaning and mysticism achieved by ambiguous words, implicational phrases, and clichéd statements that serve no purpose other than to give air to such intellectual reactions by the reader. That is not to say that I do not hold any or all of the emotions and feelings when I write. I just write so to assume a more developed influence on the subject matter and to vaguely, yet vividly detail the narration in my writing. So no, I would not consider my works (and I say works loosely because otherwise I would leave impressions that what I write is notable in an academically superior sense) poetry. Maybe they could be classified as poems in the least sense, as they are poems by the arbitrary definition of a poem, but not poetry. The inspiration, cultivation and creation of each of my writings are poetry in itself. The craftsmanship in its laughably paradoxical exhibition is poetry. The message is merely nonexistent if not totally feigned, over exaggerated, and partially presented, but those are the things for which I am driven to write. I enjoy the painstaking effort at fully forming an idea or emotion into an executable stream of phrases and coherent logic that all over has a “poetic” shape and reasonable cohesion.
The pitiful--inthaticanonlyhopepitywouldbethecommonfeelinghere--thing is that my writings are overlooked and generally unread, granted they are only posted on (1) my “blog1” and (2) on Facebook2. I know not the reasoning behind this as trying to analyze reasons for individual discretion would be quite lengthy. I could do it and noticing (the noticing being only done be me as I’m writing because quite frankly for someone to pick up on this point—that I interrupted midthought3—would be too high of an expectation. However, I am not condescending or implying that to pick up on such a thought is impossible, merely unlikely, especially considering I hardly understand my thought process without trying to pinpoint its schematics in a disorganized paragraph such as this one becauseitisdifficulttomap without using a flowchart of some sort—and I am not doing so, evident if you regard the fact that I am writing a narrative of sorts. Apologies for the overall chaos of this writing style. I will eventually find my rhythm and perfect a more followable style. Nonetheless, in my defense, I am writing my thoughts and it seems rational to write them as they are being thought. And now back to the other half of the sentence that I started many lines ago…) how I haven’t dismissed thought, clear in that I felt it important enough to include (this last part inserted for those who hadn’t noticed what I had but now can understand what I thought4,5); maybe in the next installment of “purging my vaulted psyche” will I discuss my beliefs as to why certain people make certain choices concerning whether to read a note I post of Facebook or not.
1 I put “blog” in quotation marks, as such, because I personally believe that it does not fulfill the criteria of my envisioning of the definition of a blog. Though, it serves the purpose of a blog less the personal stories and unnecessarily long critiques of trivial culture references. If not semi obvious that was partially how I perceive how the content of blogs constitutes. Additionally, my blog is bland and depraved of nothing but my poetic writings (presently speaking, as this entire synopsis of the ONLT THING I COULD THINK OF TO WRITE ABOUT, when I actually wanted to write about my life buteverthingelseistartedtotypeimmediatelysucked, is going to be posted—and probably is—if this is being read, for the first time, other than by myself as I type, by someone).
2 Second [implied but still very needed to be stated], I note that I felt an unavoidable urge to capitalize the ‘f’ in Facebook—an urge I imagine most other order compulsive users, who aren’t also some of the idiots I have seen Facebook (now a verb), also are stricken by.
3 I tend to do that—interject other thoughts mid-thought—very frequently, even in regular conversation. Otherwise, and I have proven it to myself, I will forget the second thought that fit perfectly, in some instances, in the middle of the first conversation. Likewise, in my attempts at trying to refrain from forgetting my additional inputs, I forget the original topic of conversation. In short, asides are distracting but I do them anyway.
4 I hope.
5 Sometimes I lose myself as well and it is just best to move on. Nothing you have read is that important and worth rereading just to try and understand. Plus, it would be easier to ask me what I meant; me being a terrible teacher, you would wind up further confused and more pissed.
