Taking a break from writing, because everyone deserves a break at times.  The consistency of writing has been great, and yesterday’s post was lengthy.  This is partially writer’s block, but it’s not entirely the reasoning behind the break.

Spontaneity and creativity–spontaneous creativitus as it’s been scientifically designated binomally–can happen at any moment.  This is not just true for the writers.  As business folk, promoters, wedding planners, healthy eaters and recipe creators, or lawyers, we could be anywhere at anytime when a creative idea can hit us immediately.  It’s either an idea or bird shit, you can decide on that.

We have also felt that romantic moment where you met the eyes of someone in particular, or you wanted to.  Sometimes you eavesdrop and you want to be a part of whatever conversation you hear, or you want to incorporate it into your own personal relationship.  The moment your eyes meet with someone, it is a bit of a procrastination; you want to talk to them, but you are unsure how.  You brainstorm ideas on how to approach, but you second guess yourself and wait.  You wait, and sometimes you miss that opportunity, leaving you to only lament in the What If?, kicking your pathetic self.

I enjoy this poem, and I hope you do as well.  The author’s explanation, which is also found at the website (please click on the title of the poem below), touches upon the love/procrastination while writing said love poem.

Poets.org sends me emails so I can have a Poem-A-Day.  Its great, and it’s very enjoyable.  The other day, I received a poem by poet/author (depending on how you’d like to designate him as), and it is entitled… well, simply, here it is:

poem I wrote sitting across the table from you

by Kevin Varrone

If I had two nickels to rub together
I would rub them together

like a kid rubs sticks together
until friction made combustion

and they burned
a hole in my pocket

into which I would put my hand
and then my arm

and eventually my whole self–
I would fold myself

into the hole in my pocket and disappear
into the pocket of myself, or at least my pants

but before I did
like some ancient star

I’d grab your hand