There are certainly times when
         I have particular,
    you know,
                 emotions, but
      I am lacking,
        poetically,
    the ability to summon the
       proper sort of words and
     phrases to adequately
          express myself and
   succinctly,
          uh,
             summarize my
                   various feelings and,
                      like,
             inclinations toward you,
               and so, time after time,
                           I find myself in class,
                       staring blankly at a
              scribbled-out page
                                  in my notebook,
                     headphones in, but off,
             or elsewise, a
                       freshly-opened
                    Notepad file,
                           desperately listening to
                      David Lanz and
           searching through my memories for
                fragments of sentences and verse
                      that I'm sure I was thinking of
                 before I got on that
                    one train of thought about
                                     your smile and stuff
                                                 or whatever,
                        because I even remember thinking,
         'Oh, that's pretty good,
                          I should write that down,'
                                             and no, teeth grinding,
                                                                    pen in hand, the
                                                     irony of that does
                                    not escape me
                                              (irony of course being
                                            used in the loosest, most
                                                modern sense of the word--
                                               like, in the way that
                                                 usually drives poets
                                          a little crazy, but then,
                                             well, for one thing, what doesn't,
                                                   and for another,
                                                                                     I am no poet)
                         and neither, of course, does the irony
                     that when I'm
     around you, and thus
                             away from my paper
                     or at least, unwilling
                                 to go to it,
                 every thought that passes
                     through my head
                            fucking
                                 rhymes
               or at least flows
                  and is perhaps even
                                    more than one sentence,
                         though, given my
                                    hyperactivity
                               when it comes to
                                           being close to you,
                                                      if there is any punctuation,
                         it is
                               an exclamation point.