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?