The reality of poetry is nothing is ever new
Every word before the formation of the language was thought of and known.
The reality of poetry is it has all been written.
The reality of poetry is you are not actually writing. You are pointing.
To what are you pointing?
Something bigger and more beautiful than what is before your eyes
The world you see is a painting
And what else is a painting for but to reveal the heart of the painter.
And so that’s what I hope to do
With every syllable
And Every pen stroke
To reveal the heart of the painter
By the Brooke 