A poem unveiling the truth about the nudity of poets.
|I don't know how someone could ever have thought|
That poets are in any way taller, larger, superior to men.
If anything, they are inferior for they are beasts -
Subjects to their own vulnerability of feeling.
When we weep in our beds and grab tight,
We do no good to the world but to take another step in the endless inevitable cycle of life.
Our own sensibility that hits our own heart at every bolting minute,
Forcing us to love what is not loveable or what not loves us back
And still remaining ally to the tears we shed.
Things are so material and we normally grab on to them as if they were Godsend
But better be flat and material than be weak and small!
And even those wings to fly that were granted to us,
Just make us fall and drown in our immensity of thoughts.
The soul when we - exhausted and devastated - stop writing, lays dead
Awaiting for another of its' attacks of throbbing.
Soulless, we look for consolation in the poise of those around us
Only to find one axis not two in the domains of humanity.
And is it nature's law that we be those who - alienated - seek refuge and integration,
Can those who do not feel not miss some of those tender times
Where everything is in vain and we are empty,
Can they not feel eager to experience the relieve of returning to sanity?
And in the affection we seek, we delight at the exclamations of appreciation
That simple words get - our words - nevertheless just meaningless words.
Barely do we wish to tell them that their words will never be consolation
Or that ours cannot be properly understood without grieve, pain and sorrow.
Yet so needing we accept the empathy of those who lack to understand.
Despite that, Fortune still does not request Cupid's bow and arrow
And one's quest continues - broken hearted, grieveful and
Wordless - the wheel that continues to weave these words into a carpet.
And how beautiful carpets look to those misers,
An array of colours, an intricate texture... and inherently, profitable.
For what else should humans be interested in but in the very success of their own kin?
When in those kins, all alike us, one fails - none of them weeps, none of them tears at the other's disgrace and misery.
And in this very filth of our own, we can finally redact our last will -
Not because we shall soon contemplate the realms of Our Lord or Satan himself,
But because the other side of the truth is far too unbearable -
We too are those misers, tear-provoking hags that for our own upheaval, rape a virgin with the cruel words of grief, sorrow and tragedy...