I have a dream that I will one day start writing poems that matter. Ones that spark with the essence of me and hold symbols and metaphors that will pick at your mind forever. Maybe this is a hope or a pipe dream, but that’s sincerely how I feel. Sure, I do write for sanity and to discover little things about myself I thought I knew, but I also want to change lives for the better.

My pessimistic mind feels as though in recent weeks my poetry has gone on a sharp decline. Either that or the self-confidence I once had has. I do write a lot, but I limit each writing style as to not burn out. One could say to stop writing other forms of words, but I enjoy scripting plays and really short fiction. Perhaps, throw a novel in here or there. I do read but not as often as I write. I pretty much either have to choose whether to read a little and write a lot or write a little and read a lot. I prefer the former, because it’s cheaper, I’m very picky about work, and it helps me savor over the books more. I do read a lot of online work, but I mean in the realms of printed poetry.

I know I will improve. I look at work I produced just a few months ago, and I wonder what the hell was I thinking. Not all of it’s bad, and I usually can salvage something in the rewrites I’ve finally started doing. Perhaps, I’m more lax with my words which will help me sculpt something better in a rewrite, but I really try to write something that’s pretty good on the first shot. Then, afterwards, I try to sculpt it into a finer piece of art.

I have always been and will always be my hardest critic.