Each night (and each morning, and at several other times throughout the day), I sit down and write. I reflect on the past day, try to be appreciative of the present moment, and look ahead to the morrow.
Last night, after the first two lines, I realised I might have a poem on my hands, so I gave myself over to this idea and let it come. This is the first poem I’ve written in months.
I like it.
Let me know if you do (or not!).
Again I struggle for structure/direction. Too much time at my discretion. (Condemned to freedom - Sartre) Squeezing the life out: frantic brain, clutching hands. This head of mine: a foreign land.