A poet's greatest strength is her flaws, the ability to embrace everything life gives her, to learn from her mistakes. A poet makes mistakes, all kinds of them. The scribbles in her notebook tell her so. The ultimate result--a new language made of a conglomeration of sounds that mean something other than their physical shapes, something more than their esoteric energy--isn't at all a mistake.
It's a reason.
It's motivation.
It's inspiration and celebration and life.
A poet's greatest weakness is perfection, because if something were perfect it wouldn't include flaws. It wouldn't include mistakes, protrude from the antithesis of grace, preclude anything but what it means at face-value. And therefore, the output is the same as the input. No progress, no process, no thought.
But that, too, is a flaw.
It's a reason.
It's motivation.
It's inspiration and celebration and life.
A poet's greatest weakness is perfection, because if something were perfect it wouldn't include flaws. It wouldn't include mistakes, protrude from the antithesis of grace, preclude anything but what it means at face-value. And therefore, the output is the same as the input. No progress, no process, no thought.
But that, too, is a flaw.
