Wrote two poems that could be better, and may end up being those stupid throwaway things I write so often because I can’t make them into anything good after all. Which isn’t to say I didn’t like that I wrote them. I did. I just don’t think they’re any good in their current states. (Although I am pathetic sometimes: I made the first one into something ridiculous and it made me laugh.)

Worked again on a poem that, I swear, I have been working on for three years now. I’m never quite happy with it, and even now I feel like something is not quite as it should be.

Realised again that I write an awful lot of poems that originate in my not being able to fall asleep easily.
Also that almost every single poem I write is still manages to be about or for or in some obscure way related to my previous post. I am still annoyed by that, but I think it’s fake annoyance. I think that deep down, I am secretly pleased that I have a continual excuse to write about it.

I had an idea that I won’t get to tonight, but I will work on it tomorrow. I am shocked that I never thought of it before.

Having been dead does have its advantages sometimes.