On Poets

Have you ever been in a gathering of poets?

Oh no, not just any poets, published and selling poets. For anyone who writes a poem can be named a poet, can they not?

The answer is, of course not, they cannot. They will get the humble title of wordsmith, and be happy with it. For wordsmith is what is enough for one who moulds words into verses, into a series of soft, playful, lines of what they feel inside. And the finished product, a poem, will only be good enough for them, for that is what they asked to mould.

But, a poet? A poet shall touch the words and offer light, a poet shall touch the hearts of many, they shall be discussed, they shall be taught, they shall be quoted religiously and thought of as a model of intellect and integrity. They shall criticize, and point out those who wronged them, they shall dive in pits of depression, and glorious, oh, glorious, boredom. They shall be hungry to reach their goal, they shall create masterpieces.

Or perhaps, they shall be brought upon this world, with endless talent, running like water, pouring onto papers and keyboards like rain pours to the world. They are the ones who will create, who will change and touch an entire generation, inspire, revolutionize, forge a new path into writing. They shall be the visionaries.

And the world shall follow, without a second word. The critics shall scream and shout, they will bury the finest, until their talent shines through, too large, too bright, too beautiful to hide.

But the wordsmiths shall write, and write, and despair. They shall forge their words into a curved, crooked sword, that’s not even sharp. They will live in poverty, in fear, in endless need, for some, a bit of the light of one of the great men of their time, the true poets. The wordsmiths will forever live in their shadows, writing more, and more, or giving up. Paper will pile around them, and will be torn with every new rejection. Stomachs will cave in, hearts will be broken, lungs will blacken with tar and nicotine. For they can never reach the real poets.

The real poets, that drench themselves in self-importance. The real poets, that think they are all the above, and flaunt it to its maximum. The real poets, whose rotten minds smell in the air around them. The real poets, that enter the boudoir of the Muses.

But wordsmith, when you find yourself in this boudoir, you’ll wish you never entered.

For it smells of shit and stage makeup.