Why I am Not a Poet

I seem to be an addictfor self congratulation.I seem tobe in love with myself.I'm not sure if this is myor the human condition,but it justseems arrogant.So I've followed the example of Millay,Millay I think said itbut I'm nota man knownto specifics;and besides,why let facts get in the wayof a good story?So I think Edna got it rightwhen she called this arthorse manure,in a more colorful way.See, there's a pavement poundingthat I just didn't do.Therein lies the tragedy,the real awfulness:how does a person make artout of hunger,war,the colors of industry and pollutionand not reach down?This is the major problemI too have with Darwinism,with protesters who protestfor the sake of protesting.What good does it do?Here today, gone tomorrow.In this we deny God,we deny the basic humanity afforded all peoplesregardless of their worldly value.No,I am not a poetif that ties my hands.I spend daysin love with myself;searching the meaning of every wordthough I wrote it.I twist it and turn itlike I'd make Rubik proud,and drool over various platitudes andinterpretations.So no, Edna,indeed I'm no poet:even this is a statementborn in arrogance,the human condition.Even this,you might sayis horse manure.But more colorfully.