In a Word: Poem or Blog?

Is every blog a poem to the universe?

If it is… why is it sculpted by algorithms instead of human hearts?

A red cartoon Lego block on the floor framed in a ray of shining light.

SEO like Lego on the floor.

Hyperlinks glowing their siren song.

And ads hoping to sneak and stick in your subconscious.

(So you’ll buy something on Temu next Thursday.)

May I Have a Word (Count)?

“You should write at least 1,500 words for your blog to IMPROVE SEARCH ENGINE RANKING, ESTABLISH AUTHORITY, AND INCREASE USER ENGAGEMENT.”

Sorry for yelling that last part.

I was afraid it would put you to sleep.

And I don’t want you to miss the best part:

… What if I wrote a single word instead?

If this is a poem, I get to pick the word based on a feeling.

That feeling hovering at the edge of my vision.

So deep in my belly it’s actually the middle of the Milky Way.

A word I hear ringing in my ears or spilling out of my mouth without warning.

“Enough.”

Enter the Almighty Algorithm

If this is a blog, SEO picks the word *EveRyOne iS sEaRchiNG fOr.*

Optimizing that Search Engine to its fullest at “I think I can” speeds.

A blue cartoon train chugging up a green and brown hill.

So a poem about “weather,” “Amazon,” or “food near me.”

Searchable. Findable. Empty.

And You Can’t Have a Blog Without Links!

At least a line or two about a previous poem. (Internal link.)

Or someone else’s poem. (External link.)

Shining blue and tantalizing on the page.

Weaving a spider’s web of information for you to rest in.

A black and white cartoon spiderweb hanging from a brown branch. The sky is purple in the background. The web spells out “You Are Here” and a spider hangs nearby.

To stay a moment longer… to read another minute… ENGAGE THAT USER.

And hope they don’t struggle. Or else.

No eyeballs. No clicks. No purpose.

But what if the link was a connection — not a snare?

ABC: Always Be Consuming

Haven’t poems always fed starving artists?

Art feeds the soul.

Art launders billionaires’ money.

A sea of grey cartoon heads with upheld fists clutching colorful money as if bidding at auction.

Not Waving but Drowning.

Not blogging but selling.

“Once upon a midnight dreary, I took the road less traveled by… and clicked a pop-up by accident.”

Accept all cookies at your own peril — they’re not as delicious as advertised.

A Poem by Any Other Name

This could be a blog — it’s shaped like one.

But if it’s a poem, the word comes from me.

From the darkness. From the stars. From the raised fists of ancestors.

And I choose:

Enough

Not a four letter word — but the smallest tip of a deep-down iceberg of fear:

“Do we have enough?”

Not a prayer — but shining and soft:

“You are enough.”

Not a battlecry — but hissed through clenched teeth and screamed at the top of lungs:

“That’s ENOUGH.”

Not a poem. Not a blog.

Neither horseshoes nor handgrenades.

But close enough.

_{Words About Stuff by Amy the Copywriter | Art by RAD Studio}