Today I hid books in my house.

I gathered all the poorly written books I own into one pile and hid them at the back of a wardrobe, behind my father's shirts and work jackets. I feel happier now that they are there. I really didn't like looking at them. I felt they were discouraging me from writing well. But throwing them out would have felt like I was letting them win.

I keep writing poems for my class with John Haynes. Poems with ten syllables per line, and beginning with the phrase 'today i must', and in the style of arthur waley, as per the exercise. I cannot take them to class because they are just not appropriate, even though they are some of the best poems I've written. Every time I sit down to write a new one, I think, right, now I must write something suitable for class. And I just don't. I don't know why.