There is nothing but good news and bad news to put in here
and none of it is new news to anyone besides for me.

My vision of poetry has changed considerably. Ive recently realized that I am a cowardly writer, and that I don't know how to write bravely. I'm working on it. This makes the ' poetry' I have written lately turn either shit, or more personal than I am used to. It doesn't feel right to post them, but it doesn't feel right to not post them. Poetry has always been for the other, for me, and this writing for myself junk is a threat to my poetic ideology. It is also easy for me to slip into complacency and not edit things that I know no one will see. I'm desperate for critique, but at the same time, I'm scared shitless when it comes to receiving critique on these poems.

I fell in love for the first time earlier this year. Nothing has been more singularly destructive to both my mental state and my progress towards my degree, and eventually life. First and only time in twenty-two years. I am torn between needing to be around her and not being able to be around her. It changes quite a bit. The other day I listened to 'Bye, Bye, Bye--by(e) N'Sync with a sympathetic ear. It is really that bad.

But this brings up the second troubling change to my poetic ideology--somehow, trite has turned to gold. A stanza about her eyes, which, only a year ago would seem excessive and boring, has become a valid option. Poetry which I would snub and scoff at a year ago, suddenly has new meaning. It has become neigh impossible to weigh one poem against another, seeing as my judgment has completely shifted. Its even more troubling when I try to write.

There is lots of good in this too. For one, I feel like I need to write. As complicated as the previous situation makes that, it is still a positive thing. When I am writing, I am thinking. Editing my writing, to an extent, edits and trains my thinking. My mind needs all the training it can get.

This is the ultimate semester of school for me. If I don't do exceptionally well, I am thrown into the workforce and sucks to my ass-mar.

And ever-present, effervescent imperfections in the sable sky
When soot-marked sashes gather 'round the Pleiades
Indicate that the knowable is somehow on the incline.