From The Centrifuge

I've completed a poem a day for thirty-two days. I should feel proud, happy that I am able to call on that which I've always doubted I had, imagination, to write something concrete, real, new, every day for a month, but I am not, at least not entirely. Worryingly, I feel more negativity than positivity at the result, although there are positives to take. - I never struggled for long for an idea - I could work with limited time to produce something interesting - Humour was evident, even if it was bleak... The negatives mount up though. - It's all too prosaic - I can't recall any real insight or observations of depth - I was very lazy - first drafts were often the only drafts, and I rarely read the poems out loud, instead trying to put down what was in my head regardless of quality or scansion - When I did struggle for ideas, I was too quick to write about the challenges and shortcomings of my writing instead of investing time in thinking a little longer and in more depth...

Toothpaste For Dinner, thank you, Drew.