The process of a poet

The nonchalance of this finite enigma A majestic existence among the dreams and ideas we seem to never get around to A sullen caricature of the impression you had in mind Where this harmonious repertoire is left behind, to the mercy of your syntax Your arrogance, and as frugal it may be, is just another motive for your innocence, an excuse in itself, lost in its selfish entity You adapt your thoughts into an intention of unsung compassion where you unfold the main idea; what you really want to mention Your ideas ever-changing, dynamic interpretations of what you thought you meant, so you figure you’ll continue, for in the end, it’ll make sense But that’s where the beauty rests, you see, as most works of recognized poets seem obsolete, they likely found their inspirations in the confusion category So you let the idea generate, amongst a childish stage fright; a lost in breath which invokes a subtle regret, for your work had too much of a spontaneous intent Leaving yourself in more confusion as you continue, but then.. you realize; that’s where the beauty rests