Sure my punctuation is a little askew, the flow tending to my own style, but here’s to hoping and praying that enough of you get it. Sometimes the rules, while unmatched in their supposed correctness of course, can actually turn a writer into a literary robot – adhere to something which doesn’t quite feel so correct to you per se, and the whole thing will unintentionally unravel like hell on hot wheels. There are enough writers out there who have gone against the grain by now for me to truly see that writing – good, good writing – is absolutely an art form. It can and always should be making a grandiose gesture in attempting to transcend things, to beat outside the box and to make the reader think to enjoy it all the more. It is irritating this particular form, simply because there are no brushstrokes, no colours in the first instance. The colours come from the bridged collaboration between writer and reader, and we have no real way of knowing how a million different minds tend to taking to creatively working. So yeah, our ability to play out aforementioned punctuation and what not in our own suitably comforting style is utmost important to me. That has to be our peculiar brushstroke searching for insatiable colour. I just wish I could finally wholeheartedly convince myself that I am doing this solely because it is my requisite tool and rather not because I am excusing myself owing to an inability to adhere to said exactitude and, in my opinion at least, inhibiting rules of writing in one manner or other. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? I just don’t quite know if it is my stickler approach or if, in fact, the reader doesn’t think about it like this in the first place and would far prefer not to have to be an A-student in English grammar. I’m fairly sure I could be one if I wanted, maybe, but where’s the fun in losing myself aside a style that seems to work for me so far? I’m fairly odd, I see that. I dream in poems – the detailed construction, the nonstop meticulousness of my own stylised approach, and who am I to ever question my dreams particular quest. A dream’s a dream’s a dream. Plus, I want to speak these words-cum-stories of mine to people, to not have them stuck gathering boredom on a colourless, lifeless page, so that’s when it will all boil down to breathes and elongated pauses and so forth. No punctuation can ever get that spot on, can it though? It’s too open-ended. There has to be a reason why Bukowski loathed the ‘rules’ – and I am seeing more and more by the day that it wasn’t his inability to keep up but rather perhaps grammars own inability to renew itself and to transcend with the times. He transcended like crazy. Literally. If I’m to remain a subtle stickler for now then that will have to do just fine. Or I might just be the greatest stickler/pretender. I also realise one million per cent how odd it is for an unknown writer to sign their website name to what can only really be perceived as a bat-shit, albeit nonetheless self-important statement, but it was always all in our nothing. To me every single thing, a person’s next sudden glorious movement, is a possible poem, and it kills me not knowing if that second last comma is a necessity or not. Fuck ’em. – poetart