Some miseries have their place and they are the only chance we get- of feeling relevant.

Stale tea?

how to poem about getting fired?

incompetent
insecure
irrelevant
insincere
immaterial
inconsequential

huh. anyone notice a pattern here?

what does it mean to be professional. and why do we stick to this word like flies on fly paper? i mean, really. what does it even mean? i'm sending this out there. out out. what does this WORD mean?? and what use is to someone who hates the idea of a profession. it's like psychological testing. (another thing i've always hated.) be objective be objective. basically be something that you're not. really, does anybody care. but that's the point i guess. no one cares. about who you really are. so there the twain meet.

so now that i'm in this position of fearing the doomed "i", i am stumped. because if this is what i have to look forward to in a career, then it brings me to wonder why anyone does it. i suppose i sound really immature(ooh! another 'i'!) but that's just it. am i expected to come into the world of work smelling like a psychological rose? or a stapler. or whatever it is offices smell of. right now my office smells of stale tea. uh.. stale tea. i do NOT want to smell like stale tea.

uh anyone who loves their job... get out now!

Poetry

Finally! Finally I find inspiration has struck, and I start this new blog-with nothing spectacular but with something to say. A new muse for each day(or week or month-I'm horribly lazy) I promise.

So today was like any other- I was incredibly bored and was seriously considering taping my lids to my forehead so my eyes could remain open. Then, in one of those rare days when the internet offers something beautiful, I managed to chance upon a blog so ripe with inspiration I felt the stirrings of a whirlpool of ideas even before I explored it. So in my initial forays into the blog I found one lovely tiny post titled "What is Poetry?" (I won't mention the blog here-I'm weird like that) Anyway, the post dealt with the author's own struggle(I'm not sure if this is the right word- I don't think she'd know either) with this question. Anyway, it brought me to wonder about poetry as I understand it. I only began writing this year and yet I feel like something inside me has always been waiting to burst this way. All this poetry is the best reflection of my life's transitions. My personal mascot, that no one can deny because it is the part of me that I choose to place out there. It in my indefinable stamp- though it does allow comment, it is brazen and bold, stands up for itself unlike me. So that got me thinking about my poetry. What are my poems? Not what are they saying but what do they mean? To me? What are these undefinable intangible beings that I have breathed life into that survive quite happily without any assistance from me. These things I have no explanation for but Poetry(and I'll capitalise here for no reason) as I understand it is wildly different, it is an act. An act of commitment made almost too soon, to an idea that almost always comes at the wrong time(like an office meeting *sigh*).. And an event..occurring(always!) when you bang your knee against something and then sit to pick at the scab that forms over the wound.

It is inescapable, wildly unpredictable and I indulge in it because I must. I figure that's definition enough.

If this blog post ends too prematurely think of it as a poem undecided. It's much easier to forgive.