in parentheses

I see things

Within every poet there lies an internal conflict,
A dilemma with which he must toil incessantly through his writing.
Word upon word he craves to reconcile this confusion,
Such that tissue paper page upon tissue paper page is filled
With the fruits of said strife.

It is evident in the poet’s face as he stares at life,
Silently from a distance,
Slowly orchestrating the proper words to narrate its unfolding
With the only goal of expressing the beauty of every moment, making it his own.
But this ownership is a selfless one: a poet aims to serve,
To please an audience, to arouse emotions.
Those he once felt and now births for you to share in his harvested fruit.

This toil follows the poet throughout his entire life as he stubbornly mistakes his identity.
The poet acts as a corrective lens through which
The world can be perceived in it’s purest form.
His toil is the epitome of his ego.
He writes what he perceives, hoping he can make someone see better.
Or at least, differently.
Because he believes his view is always worth noting and glorifying,
For better or worse, a poet must have a certain level of conceit.
His curse, to see for others, is his sole purpose.
To live in the existential hope that his words will help countless others see what he once did.