I don’t know where to begin to describe or define poetry. I believe that poetry is the art of showing the world in a light it has never been seen in. It isn’t about looking at something new. It isn’t about looking at something with a new look.
Poetry is the art of finding a new way to look.
Then what about the poet? Is the poet merely a looking glass or a window to the world that was never opened? John Keats sums it up with his quote:
Day 4: Theme: Imperfection, Style: Limerick, Device: Enjambment
The truth be said, there is only one who can be a model for perfection. I believe that would be nobody which will be accepted by everybody who is a part of this creation.
Nobody is indeed perfect something that we need to accept. But then what is the meaning of perfection – I find it exasperating that no one can find its value on the market.
How can the value be defined? It is something that can’t be touched with a kiss. Perfection can be defined in different ways: To each their own statement. After all no matter the name, a rose is a rose.
But as I said a few lines ago – isn’t perfection under nobody’s possession? Well, then who is this person? And how is this quality in their arson? Right now I have found an answer to this question.
You and I are the nobodies that the world has seen – we are the perfections that have been present right from the moment of existence to now, where we are our own sustenance.
Be you. Be unique. Be perfect. Be your own king or queen.