Same old, same old.
Silent house, except for a cat snoring and the sound my laptop makes as I type.
Writing poems. Thinking. Editing.
Is this one any good? Who is the one to say so? Is all this effort a waste of time? Why have I always felt so impelled to write? Why is this one so crowded and this one so spare?
I find a line I like: ‘I am bombarded, yet I stand.’ I proceed from there. Something takes shape, however vaguely.