The early promise of a poem, as a rule, is filled with feelings.
When, as a just-turned-teen, the muse asserts itself, it is oozy
with emotional excess. As one takes on the gears of growth, it
reduces as if exposure drains us of humanity. Slowly, we pick
up control by saddling the hobbyhorse so as not to let it swerve
on the race track of the page.
In a social set-up, the inner circle pumps the endeavors, or it is
a play of the apple-polish tick and trick. On Socmed, Kudos
to creativity is crowdfunded. As inertia rigs up the climes for
the banquet, heaves of emotional gradations welcome it. If
one continues to dip in the toxic canister, it loses the sting
and its power to multiply.
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