“Poetry is in” chirped my neighbor
alluding to the latest nova burst iteration of wordists
“So were bell bottoms once” I responded
cattily striking my well practiced perpetually penniless pouty poet pose
For isn’t the common calling of the poet’s creed to be out?
while illuminating the invisible and its overlooked inverse
and yes, we know when the truth of our targets has been pricked
regardless of simultaneously superfluous and nutritious validation from others
Do not label the poetic process a struggle
blood is absent, sweat generally sparse, although tears may present (for seasoning)
when a creation becomes infinite or even close enough
the miraculous rush of the birth itself cannot be equaled
What crosses the line of mushing poetry into commodity?
as creativity is art, not to be rated or ranked
appreciated or not, certainly