Something about poetry

Say I’d really like to find the real identity, the real sense. Among the poetry and the life fucked up above a wineglass in a room full of smoke. Existencionalism is a false friend, a furbished whore hiding a worm..a worm that may eat you from inside. It all looks pretty attractive unless you go through it. There’s nothing more sad than an eyeview on a poet, or so-called one, a wretch and a loser being broke both materially and spiritually trying to think up above a glass of wine something that would last for ever..may it all end up just with both glass and the notepad being empty.. poetry is nice, being a poet is not great bargain.

Still, there’s perhaps a slight chance that the paper in front of you catches something special, something unique, perhaps just a spirit of a moment..one single glimpse of eternity in a dirty booze joint, somewhere in the middle of an old town, or quiver of heart from two eyes just passing by, or maybe just a feeling that writing about having nothing to write about still makes some sense..

There are many things that may poetry say, much more than a poet can think about when writing, maybe that’s why it’s all somehow worth it. A poetry shall be much bigger than a poet. A poet is insignificant, can turn into an alcoholic wreck, having forgotten even his own words, but a poetry shall remain and sound off.