Poetry and therapy.

So I’ve been back at work this last few days. Not my actual job, but back at work writing. Lots of editing, lots of writing, lots of creative everything being hurled out. I’ve managed some poems that didn’t suck, which is  a refreshing change, and a therapeutic one at that.

Speaking of therapy, I get to go down that new and experimental (and kind of expensive) road today. So that’s new.

Why is it that I’m always the most creative when everything is fucked? Is this a question that someone can answer for me? Hey! Maybe someone like a therapist. Okay, maybe it’s worth the money. Time will tell. What a problem, and with that, I’m off to listen to the song Problems by the Sex Pistols till I figure it out. Unfortunately, Johnny Rotten spouts out a lyric like, “what do you expect me to do?” almost immediately, so maybe he’s not the best help.

Oh, and the novel is almost done. Not the new one, the old one. The good one. 


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