bad poetry
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I was never a good poet. My brain seems hardwired for prose. I can write a beautiful sentence full of metaphor and irony, but any attempt to craft that into something short ultimately results in something cliche and insincere. Still, despite my shortcomings, I never stopped trying to write poems. I still enjoy the genre
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Every winter I seclude myself in my hobbit hole of a home. I surround myself with hot beverage, warm blankets, and fuzzy sweaters so I can pretend that the cold doesn’t exist. The short days drag into never-ending weeks of self-isolation and hibernation. All the hours pass by in a gray smog of monotony, fatigue,
Bringing Mae Flowers 