Nobody cares about poetry, and nobody should. Poetry doesn’t add any value to your life. The poetic art can only show you what is, what could have been, maybe even what might become. It’s a flight of fancy, away from this world, within and without. In that lies its essence, it is a tool of expressing, feeling, and moving on. If you could derive value from this, you’d have to be a little crazy. Filled with existential and Socratic questions, you might find answers in a line simply put. Driving you further into madness, by obsessing over every syllable and filling your world vision with nothing but precise measurements of your life’s maladies.
Beyond the caring for, in just reading and writing poetry, you can find yourself amused, entertained, confused, moved or all at once. You don’t have to agree with poetry. If it disagrees with you, move on to better things, but know that in the worst of times there’s always poetry. Not the perfectly sculpted piece of work, but that trashy poem that just blurts out everything from inside, having an effect of catharsis.
A poem is just a metaphor for the world we live in, exaggerated by dramatic style, it’s how our lives play out on this stage we call Earth. A poem can be nothing and can be everything. It can be a political movement, or personal source of inspiration. In it, you can find God and Atheist hymns. But above all, a poem is something, that lives in you, and cannot live without you.
If we leave poetry to AI, we’ll be left helpless against our future masters, enslaving us with their robotic metre.
Let this be ours, without caring much for it, let it be our solace in times of need, where we can go for free, to be free, from whatever it is that holds us down. Poetry cannot change the world, but it can microcosmically shift one mind at a time, towards a change that makes more and more sense the more you invest in it. My poetry is not a movement nor is it a statement. It is just an experiment, in myself, something that nobody should care about, but me. It is personal poetry, but not about me. It’s about a version of myself, that microcosmically shifted from pen to paper. Personal fiction and nonfiction subjected to my tastes and desires. I would not call it enjoyable, but rather lifeless poetry, like the way I have felt over the past dozen years.
This doesn’t change anything, no value adds, just another hat thrown in the ring of life’s poetry, like a clown that throws pie in your face. Nobody cares about the clown, and nobody should, not even you with pie on your face. Rather, work on getting the pie (poem) off by wiping (understanding), licking (feeling) and washing (letting go) yourself of the external irritant (poet/persona).
My problem as the clown is that I care about the pie, which slowly becomes a source of my nourishment, and leaves me clowning around everywhere I go. I am my own irritant, and neither do I get to have my pie nor eat it too, because as a compulsion, I must throw it in your face, leaving me lifeless with only more lifeless poetry to give.
Like the words that evaporate from your mind if not written down, my poems will evaporate from the turned pages of a book existing only for my having written it down, and nobody would have cared; nobody should have.