A thought: II

Self indulgence is the secret of poetry. Pain and pleasure, mostly pain scratched on papyrus for others to read. The others will read your words, probably admire them, congratulate you, and leave a note of appreciation for you have successfully publicized that common gash. Poetry tries to beautify the pus. I am culprit to such foolishness. Why should I consider pain any different from pleasure? Why should I understand pleasure to be good? Should there be pain or pleasure for that matter? At the fair I shot a pellet and burst a balloon. It was my pleasure. When a similar projectile hits me, I give a name, "pain" and try to kill it by suffocating it in my poetry. I am a coward to do so. Face it. Do not hide it. Live it. Do not kill it. And if you survive...then write a verse in honor of the experience. Following this logic, poetry is a parable (in verse) narrating an experience, your experience. Poetry ought to be humanized then. Give it a life, and let it live inside you, as you. It will grow flagella, and eventually acquire perception and understand morals. If it does, you will benefit...becoming more moral. Only then will poetry be honest and useful. Cherish what you have. Do not waste it. Preserve it. You might lose it any day. Do not mourn when it is lost. It was meant to disappear. Before it is gone make poetry a brother. Give it respect. Question it when it sways from course. Learn from its answers. And share bread. You are sons of the same mother- nature that is.