A Buffer into My World...

So I just realized that post #1 was a little intense, so I feel like I should preface this whole blog thing a little. I write all the time, and I currently have 3 writing classes. Poetry. Fiction. Memoir/Autobiography. I think in verse all the time, I think of how I can develop my main character (Caleb) in my short story. I listen carefully to people's names to see if I'd ever use them in a story, I pay extra attention to little buds spurting through cracks in the sidewalk or the way coffee leaves a faint, annoying ring around the mug. I watch body language, noting who is really lonely or really aggressive or really flirty or really passive or shy. I have a writer's brain, and I'm trying to develop that further.
So don't be alarmed if I write things that seem odd.
I am odd. And I kinda like it. :)
So as a preface, here is a poem I wrote last year about poetry. Don't worry, it's not this amazing piece of work. People write poetry about poetry all the time, so this is not a new, amazing, provocative thing, but it's honest and it's me.

Poetry the Manipulative Prick

I've tried simple,
complex,
longer detailed lines with similar syllables
then short and direct
staccato
for contrast

Creative imagery
--gone,
dashes--symbolic punctuation
feels overused.
simple things
described with disgusting details
and damned alliteration

I'm through with analyzing
I'm through with seeking a muse
in the swirling toilet water
or a dried leaf.
I can't handle manipulating myself
to regurgitate old feelings

But I can't stop
--notebooks--stacks
by my bed
on my desk
in my car
pens never at hand,
and a mind full of lyrics

I'm manipulated by words
letters
lines
shapes of black symbols,
empty white space