THIS IS IT!

Ok, the world can live without me or, more specifically ,my writing(the words spoken/written and yet and yet?) The writer or, more specifically ,the poet ,operates in,and broadcasts to, a vacuum and to a certain extent that is good and proper. Poetry is best when created in isolation and reads in isolation.It is, to a certain extent when the poet believes he has a (larger) audience and /or expectation that the precarious house of cards falls to the ground.The ego balloons and the desire to conform, to please, ignites.The vacuum, the void, suits me. I feed off it and it feeds off me, SYMBIOSIS.And yet ,and yet, the needling the subtle craving(can craving be subtle?) the need for recognition the pat on the back, so shallow, so hollow, so-desired. Anyway , listen(ye absent hordes ye) I was trying to define, to coin a phrase, that might explain the creation, the genesis ,of a poem and then I was listening to short story podcasts from The New Yorker and I came across this story by Lorrie Moore 'Dance in America' and she trying to persuade about the importance of dance and describes that 'dance begins when a moment of hurt combines with a moment of boredom' Now if that isn't what I've been trying to say about the genesis of a poem , then I don't know what is. Ps. Perhaps, or indeed, we should count ourselves lucky that we can attempt to write.I wonder what does the rest of the world do when the moments collide?