Musing on a Bus
I had nothing else to do, so I opened up a text editor and typed away.I fucking hate my poetry. I love it, too. It's so bloody banal. It has been said that poetry reveals what is in your heart... Or was ir your soul? Whatever. My heart must be filled with weird, comic, lovely, shite. It has also been said that poetry is so subjective, that it is difficult to accurately judge. So... Why am I judging my poetry? Because I'm a harsh judge of my own self. If that sentence was any less well-writt...