i think it would be easier not being a poet. imagine, coming home and being able to read a book, without being hit by waves of similies and metaphors, all desperately clamouring for attention, like a group of preschoolers learning how to play catch. or sitting in the middle of an english exam, drafting an essay plan, only to realise the art and intricate perfection in the composition of an idea, so perfect in its perfection, that it HAS to be made into a poem. of course, i can't write it down, its the middle of an english exam! so instead i sit in silence and tap my pencil, ignoring the incredible itching in my fingers. later, of course, the idea is forgotten, left to dry and collect dust, unentertained. it'd be so much simpler to have a brain not full of words, brimming with them, threatening explosion. there would be no need to write, record, transform, consider or to create. instead, to simply exist in the world, perhaps as a bird, or the thought-fox, that i've never seen, but have read about in poems.