its sad to think that happiness is here considered a tomfoolery and only those cynical souls who grovel

in their self inflicted misery can talk of poetry. let us not, gentle souls, use poetry to camoflage our selfish acts or justify our emotional murders. we can pretty it up all we like but the truth hurts, and the truth is this most poets drove the object of their desire screaming from the houses with their narcissistic mutterings along with an inability to ever accept the simple happinesses of mortal men, ( perhaps thinking the ambrosia of the gods more desirable, if costly.) its enough to make you swear off poetry altogether. or try some less self indulgent art like cabinet making or baking. or loving.

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