Once upon a time I took a stab at poetry...

Short stories tend to be my area of specialty when it comes to writing. I like to sit down with no prior intentions, put a pencil to paper (that's a lie. It's all done on computer but that cliché line doesn't work so well if I were to say "sit my lazy ass down in front of the fluorescent glow of a computer screen for hours on end while trying desperately to make the letters on the keyboard press themselves in a coherent pattern devoid of common spelling errors - such as the use of effect and affect that I know must piss off more people than just myself - until a novel falls out.") and merely say things until they sound happy together.

That said, poetry was an obstacle in writing that I'd yet to tackle until a beginning poetry class last semester. Prior to this instruction in poetry, the only poetry I'd ever really made time to read was a humorous haiku that was printed on a t-shirt that I promptly purchased.

Haiku's are easy

But sometimes they don't make sense

Refrigerator

I laughed for quite some time at this haiku that likely rattled the ages and warped your perception of poetry to make you think "wow, poetry kicks ass." Wearing this t-shirt around made me realize that perhaps not everyone is quite up to par on their poetry terminology. I had assumed that the definition of a haiku (a poem consisting of three lines that follow a syllabic pattern of 5, 7, 5 for each respective line) was rather common knowledge. I can't even count the number of times I had people look puzzled at my shirt and question what a "hey-koo" was. Usually I'd give them a few seconds to look confused at me before I realized that they weren't joking and explain the humor of the shirt, thus defeating the purpose of wearing a humorous shirt.This is all irrelevant...here's the first poem I came up with as a part of my beginning poetry course...

Go Get Your Heartbeat

The wide open area offends the senses,
yet constantly attracts new victims.
Light burrows in the musky room,
violently attacking the atmosphere.
Charred nicotine invades cracks on the floor,
and spilled alcohol struggles its way across countertops.
The disturbing presence of sex and sin is potent,
and holding the establishment together.

As if shadowing Hugh Heffner at his place,
he spots a pretty young thing in light blue,
an angel about to have her wings torn off.
He approaches with confidence, thinking
"she looks too easy." She drowns
in his drunken sincerity, slowly turns
a corrupted shade of gray.
She ignores her thoughts,
"Go get your heartbeat,
before it beats you right into the ground."
Without a guardian to help fight her demons,
imperfection and rapid satisfaction arrive fast
and she unmasks this imp named "Sweet Talker."
With recognition of accelerating demise,
she makes peace with a conclusion,
"There's no way he'll be here in the morning."