My poetry

I find it ridiculous that one should edit or correct poetry which in itself is perfect because of its incorrectness and should not be subject to the established ideas and rules of a much maligned society that guards heavy the reliance on an educational system so egregiously opposite to the pureness of the heart that creates these atmospheres of words. There is no mutual agreement in the wars of such words for they are intended to represent feeling and feeling can not be corrected it can only be changed and by that it is a different thing altogether. I offer that you write your poetry and rest it assured in the confidence of your intentions or insecurities or inspirations or inhibitions. It is yours, yours to leave as stupid or surreal, as serious or serendipitous. Poetry is the explanation to our most awesome of questions and the answer to our most specific of query. It makes its sense on the backs of the illogical, the erratic, the loose-fitting, off-balanced, awkward, ridiculous, repulsive, dark, sensitive, and authentic reality. Poetry is the bystanders account intended to relay, for those who desire, a message of opinion powered to transcend the uniform, overcome the authoritative, strengthen the weak, empower the hopeless, discover the lost, or comfort the broken. Poetry, in its beauty, justifies the scars and hurts of scores that seek out its shelter in the darkest of hours, relaxing fears and doubts alike in the obliging arms of the humorous, colorful, sultry, truthful narratives of strangers or established pens that release with no rule or control but those self-imposed to protect the sanity of bringing forth what falls from the recesses of their individual capacities. Yes, poetry is the excuse and the exception, both to the rule and yet to the justification of its disregard. So no, you may not “correct” my poetry. You may interpret it as you shall, you can deem it as it delivers to you but it is mine, as I wrote it, and I won’t change it.



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