I know what I like, but it's hard to describe. If it sounds good to my ears, then I appreciate it. If it makes sense when I read it, then I can enjoy it, or at least understand it. But I can't tell you what it is. I would if I could find the right words. They are there, the words, somewhere. Find them, I tell myself. But I'm already being to descriptive.

The sun sets in the west. Looks like east from where I'm standing. Going in the wrong direction again.

If I were a poet, I could find my way I guess.

All the poets seem so damned lost. Depressed and cynical. I'd make a good one. A cynic that is. If only I wasnt so sure everything would work out fine. All the poets; whining, putting a spin on thoughts I've had already. Painting pictures of adventurers; exploring; discovering things I know about already from some book or TV show. It's all there for me. I can read, see, hear and almost touch it. I know it all. All I need to know, it's been done or attempted already for me by someone more adventerous. I don't need to do it, and it doesn't have to be described beautifully.

That's what I pay them poets for.

I could be one, a poet that is. I've got some thoughts. So many thoughts, great thoughts have just escaped my mind. They're gone in a split second, amazing ideas, better ones than these, gone. Why then are these the thoughts making to the page, forever honored with the visits of your eyes. Are they worth it? What about the ones I had the other day? Sure, OK, write them down you say. But hasn't someone thought of that before? And how do I know these are my thoughts. I could be remembering one's I've heard before. I could just be reacting to some stimuli buried in my brain from a thousand years ago.

Well, the other day, let me see...what was it I wanted to remember..oh yeah... Now that I think about, the sky was low, all purple and pink. Not at all reflecting this horrible drive home. Everything around me was baked in lavender. Everyone was in their cars, tinted by the sky. I guess we were all seeing the world through rose colored eyes.

I wanted to share it with you, whoever you are.
It's probably not worth retelling.
It was pretty though, don't you think?

Is any poet ever original? Or do they keep coming up with clever ways of retelling the sameness we all share? It sure as hell seems that way. If there weren't so many poems, stories and details of other people's thoughts, well... We would all just sit around wondering about how Different everyone is.

But they're not. We're all the same.

Without the poets rehashing the same old emotions, we would have no idea that Joe the Eskimo has the same itch as Sydney the Pygmy. Ever notice how when you hear something that makes total sense to you, you think to yourself "Boy, why didn't I think of that before?" You did. So did I. I can't tell you when though.

I didn't write it down.