Poetry is putting a diaphanous veil over something unappealing, speaking regarding it just subdued enough to put into oblivion how abraded and festering and suppurate the wound is.
It’s a language of emphasizing inspiration, subjectivity – of Romanticism and painless augury, full of fanatical sentimentalism and compelling twists of the tongue.
Metaphors are hazardous travesty, using a sort of transfiguration to turn wordless sentiment into imaginable circumstances.
The way the anguish rios through yoyr body and flusters your every bones compelling you to envision misery as it pull you down to great depths and choking breaths.
The truth is, poetry is a deceiver, a fibber, an equivocator. Never fall for its exquisitely crafted stanzas causing slips into the dense fog of nostalgia.
HuedSpirit 