How strange it is to know that every poet who has ever laid down words are either dead or will die,and that is the fortunate fate of the poet. But, poetry lives on, it's only born a little more here and there ,from this and that, and it only lives on like an immortal beast,a larger and a whole entity ,forever growing more powerful by ever word that is being added to it from across the globe.Like atmosphere that engulfs us from both outside and within so terribly insane and dangerous that we could inhale it like cyanide and die. Or that we need it like some kind of a drug to live through everyday yet somehow ,sometimes,poetry cutely rhymes birth and death as if to tease. Poetry promises love and hope through words of someone, somewhere whom you 'will never' meet yes I say an affirmative 'will never' and not 'may never',and still the hope thrives.Fix me you say? If poetry cannot fix me what can you,a mere fragment of its creation do to fix me? it would be rather a pathetic attempt,for I am not a broken car nor a drink or even an appointment that can be fixed,'I am a poet' I am born as I give birth...I am born with every word that makes my heart pound in my chest that I check if people around may have heard it,and every phrase that writes itself down in my head makes my skin quiver with ecstacy.I don't write because I want to ,oh no., 'want' is a luxury not many writers can afford, I write because I 'need' to, as involuntary as breathing, that's the only way I know how to live.
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