I'm not a poet.
I’m not a poet.
Poetry is a stepping stone and an answer.
Lucretius was wise with his wooden spoon.
Even being spoon fed, I was hit in the chest with his paradoxical beauty and subsequent truth.
Homer too is wonderfully cruel, displaying the beauty of gruesome images, apathy and fragility.
Poetry delivers honey,
but I wish to see without the help, the sugar-coated beauty.
But, can I?
Can one, should one, face the pain, look it in the eye?
Would I recover? More accurately, would I even believe what I saw?
People don’t like truth, people like beauty.
The eternal conflict of an optimist prevails.
Beauty is bounteous, as is naievity.
Is poetry a solution?
Maybe poetry is the most truthful and deceitful.
Maybe pain delivers meaning and subsequently beauty.
Maybe beauty allows painful meaning to be delivered.
But, I’m not a poet. I’m perplexed.
I’m a poet?
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