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