Am I not a fool for writing poetry for the sake of writing poetry? Am I to be rejected for using words such as ennui? Am I to be ****** for figurative language? Or burned at the stake for poising a period at the end of a stream of consciousness? And yet my inner critic yearns to yell to scream more words! more passion!
I see their faces when they look at me, their empty eyes, like corpses. They believe morals are paintings on walls and scruples are currency in Eastern Europe. They do not know. They do not drink in the moments that they cannot breathe. They are silent tombstones. Sinisterly and silently scorning Shakespeare They trample over Chaucer, calling him dull. And I too am seen as a heretic. for thinking of such fantastical, whimsical thoughts.
Was it ethical for Socrates to drink Hemlock? Did they giggle like a couple of school girls as he downed it like it was a shot of whiskey? And yet we heretics are given the poison of judgement everyday swallowing the bitter cup
How much do I remember about not fitting in? Is there reason to believe I ever will? And yet faith has accepted the girl with the curly hair.
Imagination intuition emotion perception reason
All qualities which poetry blends into passion. For is not poetry the expression of passion? And yet this can be said of communication in any way: art music, writing
And yet you don't see Romeo whispering the Pythagorean Theorem to Juliet on her balcony No it lacks sincerity the Words are not his own.
No true poetry is the language of the hidden soul, the quintessence of life. Yet another quote I will never be quoted for is: "Self education is better than none" but that has nothing to do with poetry except for how to write it.
And yes, I do enjoy writing poetry. and reading it too. From Dante's inferno to Poe's Raven I have swam in the channels of print in everyone, drowning in the words.
And yes, I do enjoy being a heretic. I may never stand in, so all I can do is Stand out.
This poem, while some might wonder who the "they" is referring to, that I cannot say, for whoever becomes the they will be greatly angered. This poem also was just a slew of thoughts that came into my brain that I had to write down. I had to breathe.