The poet is a procrastinator. He goes out of his way to find other things to put his mind to. The poet knows everything else he does isn’t pursuant to his ultimate goal, which isn’t really his anyway. It’s just something he’s found himself stuck to, like a freak second head you’re forced to converse with and for which you then become too attached to destroy.
The poet makes every effort to deceive himself, anything to convince his ego that it’s okay
to think about something
The poet is a patient man. He has to be. You see, the poet spends all his days trying to pick the perfect thing to say and, moreover, trying to put it the perfect way; yet, even after he’s long gone and dead, the poet tarries on. He waits many generations, scores if not hundreds of years, until what he says and how he says it burn into the soul of man. Only then will he have achieved his fulfillment, but for it, he will have had to have been patient, which is why the poet is