The end.

I am sorry to inform my non-existent readers that my days of writing pseudo-poetry might have come to an end.
This was caused by a terrible blow to my crumbling walls of self-esteem, after I encountered some very highly esteemed pieces written by members very highly esteemed by the literary fraternity of my tiny little world.

My father had taught me something while giving photography lessons.
I had taken the picture of a sunset, and he had told me that it was chocolate box photography.
“What is chocolate box photography?” I had asked, naturally, there weren’t any Chocolates nearby.

Chocolate box photography, is the habit of taking photographs of things that are proven to be beautiful. Things like a setting sun, or rain through a glass.
Things that show no credit, or story behind the shot, but are just superficially beautiful. Things whose beauty is as cold and cliché as the green-field and white-cloud default wallpaper in Windows.

I suffer from inferiority complex, and rightly so.
My contemporaries, who have won enough literary events to call themselves poets and authors write such masterpieces, I most often don’t understand what they’re trying to say.

I logged into Facebook, again, (yes I know I have a deathwish) and I was reading through some of the works of these amazing writers.
They are beyond reproach really.

One girl whose writing people are almost in awe of, chronicles what romance is to her.
I will quote her because, she sincerely deserves to be quoted.
Also, if I may add,she is studying my dream subject in my dream college in which I will never get through because I don’t know enough about the dreamlike world of English literature.
Not as much as she does.

“Romance is riding in a gondola in Venice by moonlight reciting Rilke’s poetry to you in Tom Hiddleston’s voice”
“Romance is when the man of your dreams looks at you in the way you have always long to be looked at”
“Romance is Italian”
“Romance is a red dress and a black tuxedo in an artsy Parisian restaurant”
“Romance is a roller coaster thrilling drive across a lonely windy highway with the stereo on”
“Romance is magic. Romance is fearless. Romance is illogical.”

I could go on, but I must wipe the tears most of the people who have commented have said to have felt running down their face when they read this masterpiece.

This is her self-description on all of our favourite social site: “Wordsmith. Artist. Princess.Storyteller. Designer.With a love for the imaginary,the vintage and the fantastical. .
Occasional Fortune Teller.
Full-time Poetess.”

Okay. Babe, I’m going to have to stop calling you princess.
(That was addressed to my imaginary boyfriend. He also freelances as various audio porn artists and characters from my favourite books. If you’re interested leave a message, and he will never get back to you because he is imaginary. )

Another, far more accomplished writer, one who noone would ever dare say a word against  because, quite frankly she is above all levels of complaint, (and because if you don’t understand art you are an imbecile); writes poetry that touches your heart strings because how well you can relate to it.
This is a verse on summer(I think)

Summer blooms
in the spaces between the Renaissance bricks,
Where da Vinci’s breath still flows

Summer drips
Down the red realms into Dante’s broken heart
When the sun would sink into the Arno, I shall study how to die.”

I was mildly inspired by the used pair of socks my father left in the pile of dirty laundry in the bathroom, but after reading these, I decided these poetesses truly need space on my blog as well.
I’ll save my hotch-potch irrelevant poems for another day.

I just have one question, to all those people who call these pieces equivalent to those of Eliot.
Don’t they seem, uhm, kind of cold?

And, if they are to be believed, I haven’t ever felt romance, or appreciated summer.
Because I most definitely haven’t gone to an artsy Parisian restaurant in a black tuxedo, let alone with someone in a red dress.

I guess it is what it is, and chocolate box poetry is more appealing than my ode to smelly socks.

Sigh. Life is tough no?
Mia italiano é terribile.


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