Recently I haven't really written any poetry, I've been writing essays and short stories, picking up where I left off on half started segments of prose just for something to fill the hours. Has it been laziness I wonder? Or tidiness. Tying up loose ends. Making things neater for the new year.

Then I read over some of my own poetry and began to sorely miss writing it. Old habits are hard to break I guess. The first time I consciously remember writing a poem (or rather a segment of a poem, considering it was only one stanza) was in Year Four in Junior school. It was themed 'What I Would Put In My Box'. I think I wrote something about a unicorn dancing on a sunbeam...

Anyway, after that momentous moment in my life which shattered the earths infrastructure and lead to a global feast of celebration, I was moved up to Set One English. Things have stayed pretty much the same ever since =] now I have a place to study English at University next September, and plan to lecture the bloody subject. This is a big step up from my childhood dream of wanting to work in Sainsburys.

But I have abandoned my first love to woo the long sentenced devil in punctuated trousers, the character fondling rogue of plot devices, the prose-like-prince. I suppose it's lust =]

It's a love/hate relationship, this writing thing.