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Day Two Hundred and Forty-Five:  Hurricane Interest

I felt like writing a poem today but it didn’t end the way I wanted it to, so I’m still going to put it below this but I want to preface it with the fact that I haven’t written poetry in a while and I prefer non-cliché, non-rhyming, interesting tidbits not something that’s perfect.  Rule number one to poetry is never defend your work, actually that should be rule number one for all wrting, because if you write it it’s worth the time you’ve put into it already because it’s helped you some, and in my case every day that I write a post here puts me back on the path of not only writing routinely but to understanding myself and my relationship with writing.  So here is the kind of half-good poem I just wrote, and I hope you appreciate it for what it’s worth and not really the quality or anything, really, you don’t even have to read it I think I’ve said what I wanted to say.  I dig writing, good night.

They all talk of a blinding light

Or something like a sign, incandescent in time,

Set apart from those appearing in shadows

Or amongst the shelves, the choices, the loose leaf,

But no, that legendary artificial light only glows in its name,

Not for one not for all, a mock-biologique,

We all crave something genuine,

Organic and raw, it seems, but nothing so bright that we lose our way,

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