Poets are phoenixes and poems are butterflies


There is a perpetual sadness that resides in the deep recesses of poets' hearts. Like a landmine, it explodes when someone walks on it. The anguish and destruction are enough to damage them all over again. And yet like a Phoenix they rise. Smeared in the ashes of only one mistake - why did they let anyone enter their lives knowing too well it will be catastrophic?

But then poets are humans. Humans need love above anything else.


If Maslow's Law of Hierarchy were to be written again, poets would start from the middle. The need for love is greater than the need for food for them. It has always been like that. It will always be like that. Because poets can live without food for a week. Without love, they will perish into oblivion. They like the volcanic eruption of love - grand gestures when their lovers express love, wild and long orgasms on the bed and the subsequent ocean of pain in which they eventually drown.


Poets, of all people, celebrate love in all its forms. The soft brush of fingers on lover's cleavage - the hard push when their lovers shove them away - and - the bitter-poisonous-callous words their lovers spit when they say the final goodbye. And they keep everything locked in the deep recesses of their hearts. When they rise like a Pheonix, all these things stored in their hearts become beautiful butterfly-shaped poems that make millions tickle with love, warmth, passion and emotions.


They may never fly again because of the weight of the sadness they carry inside them. But their butterfly-shaped poems, couplets and prose with their tiny flights make millions happy.


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