Out with the old, in with the new. Burn your papers or stack them in a sturdy box. Place the box in some nook in the cellar and cement it up like that Poe story. Never look back. Never give in to the crazy rants and pleading of your victim writings. Let their voices fade slowly behind the brick wall and as their cries grow faint only the vague memories will remain. Like a ghosty sunspot on your retina behind your closed eyelids on a bright summer day. That too will fade away.

Forget about proper english and the meter. Let them be damned. Its not your first language anyway so why bother mastering it? Why bother mastering any language if its mastery will lead you away from expressing your thoughts.

Sit back and write.

Enjoy the new thoughts that will flow.

Let the old ones die. Let the new ones grow.

They too will come to a point in time and die.

That's the way of transient thoughts. The ones that are short lived and exactly the opposite of those great thoughts you find in old leather bound books that have stood the test of time.

Those thoughts are the ancient ones. Tall red oak trees compared to these thoughts. Your thoughts are the thick underbrush and thorny rose bushes that will be brushed away eventually, by fire or by scythe.

Your thoughts are transient.

They will live and die many times before you do, and none will be carried away in books by people.

They too will burn someday.