The poems are a lot of work and mainly a curse. Who are they helping? Maybe some god that laughs at us stupid, puny humans from afar.
Most of us obsessed with writing poems are back-up prophets,
even less heard than frontline prophets.
At best, it is beautiful therapy, such as a dandelion, lovely yet ignored, just a weed, blooming in a crack in a world of well-paved minds.
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