woke up.

It was strange to think of himself as a poet.

Life had become so easy—

it was poetry.

He read the great writers of the past

not because he needed to, but because he enjoyed it.

Perhaps, genius is when you stop caring completely.

When poetry is at your fingertips

not much else is required.

Sure—he remembered when he needed things

but now, things were giving themselves away, and he was acutely aware

of the cheapness of the world—the paper and plastic packaging

the lack of substance.

It could all go wrong, but losing what he had

was not likely to happen, which made him smile. If he lost his bank account,

it wouldn’t matter, because he had something

that made him feel good.

Now, he knew why the old men with long hair and beards read books in the library

or why they worked-out at the gym.

They were always the same old men. There isn’t much to do at the library and gym, but watch the people

and the poet had been doing this for decades. He knew them, even though he had never talked to them.

It was strange, that people ignored him. It didn’t bother him. He was always willing to accept the new and trade-out the bad.

He never tried to get back with the old, but they came around, anyway, and he talked to them. The poet looked respectable, but he wasn’t.

People felt betrayed, when they got to know him, because he was so different from who they thought he was. The women, were trying to hook their friends up with him, but he didn’t want to. He was waiting for something spontaneous. In fact, he had been waiting his whole life, for that.

He had worked hard for a number of years, with very little to show for it, and now his life was getting easier. He knew about pain and he didn’t want more of it, even though, he wasn’t afraid of it. In fact, dealing with pain was necessary to make good art. This would be his routine, for a while now—until, something else changed. He knew he had everything, and that is something you can’t buy. It can only be achieved with philosophy and it cannot be taken from something written down. It must be had, through thinking.

Now, he was reading poetry to the young girls in the coffee shops and they were losing their minds. This was evolution, keeping him bottled up, like a fine wine—until they drank his blood and got drunk on his poetry.

The poet knew, that to want more, is stupid, and he didn’t need to accept his life was perfect. It would change, and that was okay, and he might become something else, entirely, but right now, he was a poet, and he liked the title, because it was ridiculous, and one day he might be a fighter pilot, or a billionaire, or a bum—it didn’t matter—as long as he had, what couldn’t be taken away.

2 thoughts on “The Poet

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