I am not of that world,the one where poets of a keener mind hone and fashion words drawn from ingenious cloudy thoughts to the wonderment of man. I struggle to decipher many of their offerings wherein, 'tis said, hides artistry sublime. The fault,I know,is mine. I am not learned enough to unravel such abstract notions. I am not suitable to join that august enclave of poets who impress with like, keeping numbers small. What joy I derive from my creations is bruised by those offering works containing vague utterances that are highly applauded adding to my confusion, as I apply rhyme and reason to mine, which are ignored. I liken the poets of that other world to Salvador Dali, employing torturous routes to stretch my imagination as were it elastic, darting over their canvas's seeking the true meaning of such work as I wait for perception to dawn. The poets of my world are like Van Gogh. We throw our canvas of work right at you. Up front. In your face. What you see is what you get.
So come, join me in my world where we only use one brush, or colour,or thought to make poetry understood. Even mine!