(no subject)
the true merit of the poet is not his ability to meld together words, rendering a world startling clear and new and fresh in its audacious stance, but rather his ability to hold back all emotion, facades of smiles and mute glances, such that none would know the torrential storm that bites deep inside. people think that when they shout they are being angry- that is not anger; that is such an infinitesimal piece of rage that exists within, no, it is not rage, but a mite of dust in the Colosseum of vivid life.
so. don't fuck with me.