In these last days of the semester, my mind is running five hundred miles per hour in every direction that is not where I 'should' be focusing it. So I took a look at some fragments of poems I began at various points during the times when I couldn't find myself to really sit down and come up with something meaningful, but could potentially squeak some pleasing little lines onto a spare notebook. I can very rarely enjoy reading my own words until after I've left them alone long enough for them to become a bit less familiar.
I saw an unfamiliar quirk in these words today.
Something in me gave up on finding a connecting thread; a purposed intention for each piece. I'm seeing words that look kind of nice, and
I will criticize them soon,
Now back to work.