Remember the old phrase…
“Poetry written is for the self, to make one happy, sad or satisfied… Some, the hungry, say it even feeds their egos. Damn the fools that make up the public. The collectors of words and bringers of prosperity. The writer is what matters. Staying true to their own words and sacrifice, to remain cozy with nouns, verbs, adjectives, along with adverbs of their own creaction. Word salads are designed to whet the writer’s appetite. There, wrapped up all cozy in the privacy of their prose, content to be happy all alone. Not wanting or willing to reach next level of success, there where the air runs thin yet abundant.
The poet that calls themselves poet, if they were to reach these sheer altitudes, could they have the fortitude to survive by design?”
Anderson Forthwight
The House of Raven 🐦⬛ 