Tonight I didn't have time for a real blog entry, so I thought I'd go back to old journals and transcribe some bad poetry for comedic value. It turns out that my old poetry is too angsty for me to even think about right now. It's throbbingly painful, eyestrainingly uncomfortable.
William Faulkner considered himself a failed poet. I hope one day I can say I failed half as grandly. In the meantime, here's the most palatable thing I could find:
April 6, 1995, Thursday
Sometimes the birds sing just for me.
Sometimes the flowers bloom to please my eyes.
Sometimes the trees whisper poems.
Sometimes the stars wink just at me.
I think it's got promise. After heavy revision.
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