A meditation upon writing and myself.

Twenty one minutes past midnight.
Monday night.
I mean, it's Tuesday morning.
But.
It's still Monday night.
I think it is always the previous night until you got to sleep.
It can be 5 AM on Saturday, but if you haven't slept, it is STILL Friday night.
I know I'm not the only one to adhere to this school of thought.
It isn't a unique concept.

And you now what?

I can't write poetry.
I've hit such a dry spell; it isn't even funny.
I think, well I know actually, that a lot of the reason for that is that a lot of my poetry was either self-deprecating, or love-lorn or full of longing.  I do not have the urge to self-deprecate. I am not love-lorn or full of longing. I feel pretty confident in myself. And I'm definitely in love with a girl who loves me back, so there goes that bit.
I'm really not that good of a happy writer. I mean, when I write about being down on myself or about something I'm wishing for, I usually ENDED hopefully, but as for hope and brightness and light throughout, its foreign to me. So possibly what I need to do is start with this prose stuff and work from there. I can blog more often. Maybe attempt the odd short story. Jot down thoughts throughout the day...SOMETHING. Writing feels right and it feels like something I should do. Poetry is my chosen medium, but as that currently isn't working, I'll just have to figure out what does.