Poetry is not
real. It hovers over
the edge of existence
the blurry line between
life and death. It does not deal
with the mundane and banal
threads of being. It enters into the
microscopic, trivial things, the important things
the things that are painful to think about
the things that burn us if we get too close
the things that bring us joy too great to bear
The things that ask us to bare our hearts
And be honest with, of all people, ourselves.
Poetry is like a blind alley.
It has the soft quality of dreams and the sharp quality of truth.
Poetry is more real than reality.