12 September 2022
Most of the time, I don’t really know what to think of my poetry. It feels pedestrian. I look at it, read it, and think, Worthless. Sophomoric. Petty, trite. I know that I should be more gracious toward my own efforts. They are efforts, at least.
I wrote this for the conclusion of a CNF essay I just completed. I’m tempted to tack it on the end, where I want it to go…but I’m also terrified to do so. It might come across as too forced. No, I probably won’t. I can only take so much constructive criticism at any given time.
~meg vlaun