For me, I don't think it's worth my time to read it. What are your thoughts?

Is it a phase? Nothing excites me anymore about poetry. I don't know.
I'm not even writing anymore. I'm not even reading anymore.

It may not have come to the attention of most that I haven't been active on this site for a while.

Here's an unsolicited answer to questions that weren't asked: I've taken an indefinite break from writing.

Writing has been my only constant companion throughout life, while all things fell along the way, or darted off into the night without as much as a goodbye. Some say it is the only thing I have known and truly loved.

James let the smile of resignation take his heart. The warmth of coffee soothed his insides. He looked at the telly. The latest on CNN was an asylum breakout. Anderson had someone in the studio, one of those celebrity doctors with odd names and tv-reputation. He just saw images flash in front of his distracted gaze. It was all out of focus, vague but familiar. His mind was in a plane of its own, racing the track wildly, turning a hundred thoughts in his head; past, present, possible future, optimistic or pessimistic. Fantastic.

/*After reading a bit of On Writing by Stephen King, I finally decided to work on my prose.*/

Joan turned off the lights and slipped under the sheets. The neighbours music was soft and cool. Just as the night. Just as she liked it.

None of the roommates were in that day - gone on a two-day trip, or some other excuse to get away from her. Joan was not bothered. She couldn't have been more pleased. With the last sweet thoughts of a fun day of reading Lovecraft and King, she slipped into a dark and dreamless sleep.

Hello folks,

I thought this will help you better understand the poem and the story it tells. I'll begin with why I'm writing it:

I've always wanted to tell a story, to chart the history of an entire world, to play God and decide the fates of entire cultures and civilizations. I've made a number of attempts at writing a novel, and what I've learned after all those fruitless years it that I am no novelist.

Introduction:

I wrote this short story yesterday. It is directly inspired by a book I am now reading. I couldn't post it as a poem, because it has too much prose in it. But I do love the poem, and hope you may help me better my storytelling. This is a story I feel must be told. Thank you.
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So I joined a number of workshops, all very important, then I suddenly went AWOL.

I'll have to apologize to the workshop creators for not being active in any of them. I had exams at school and was behind on some projects. All's well now, and I'm back home, where I can concentrate on stuff I enjoy.

That said, I feel I'm losing my love for poetry.

After the lenghty essay I posted a few days ago, I want to leave this short note on my thoughts concerning the essence of a good poem.

I’ve struggled to hit the mark for several obvious reasons. Anyone who has been full hardy enough to attempt a generalisation in poetry will be familiar with the backlash.

Even then, I will boldly state, at the risk of hubris, that a good poem is one that can empathise with the reader. This came to me in a brief moment of inspiration, and I must relate to you what I feel is right about poetry.