I'm not an amazing poet, in fact I'm a terrible poet. But perhaps in 30 days I can improve? Of course I'm not looking for critiques or anything, perhaps encouragement?
1 April
The novels I write are forests,
Thick with characters and plot,
With which I can hide myself
From the rough rains of reality.
Each tree is diction, grammar, and flow,
Spreading its branches to blind the sun.
I pull apart leaves and snap stems
In the hopes that I will improve.
And yet, I can never see
The forest for the trees.
This is actually the second version of the poem. I accidentally lost the first version...
