Poetry is a word

That is not for me. I open the book thinking that I am ready, receptive enough to abandon a totally different self for great-promising-imaginative-metaphorical-metaphysical brand, a kind of packaging that you’re from. I know you belong there because you were never with me. I convinced myself that I had to do it, as usual. Just like any literary piece, it worked perfect at first. A smile, more time, a few lines of talk and I thought the verses have already consummated the self that longed for a mimesis of the imagination . Ostranenie through what’s common, probably. Self-induced confusion , most likely. White elephant , certainly. False consciousness , absolutely.

You don’t mean, you just are . That’s how poetry’s supposed to be, right? It doesn’t take a genius to know what the symbols mean. Hello, you haven’t deceived me into thinking of something else. I know that was the content even before you formed it . The iamb of what you conceal is the beat that makes me want to read more of you.

But you are poetry. You are meant to be read enjoyed discovered but only from a distance of a page of a book of a cover of a book. I will look at your rhymes as if they were mine. After all, you’re just a book that I as a reader have never been ready for.