• A young wordsmith was always fascinated with the phraseologists that are well-respected...

    Watching the poets enslave letters, mold them into syllables, carve words, and piece together phrases that amaze the planet...

    The poet is the overseer; the paper, his field; the pen, his whip...

    "No! Not slavery; the work of a poet is more like magic!"

    Poets are like magicians preparing illusions on stage with a wand before the performance...

    When they perform, their wands are never touched...

    "Yes, that’s it! I am a magician of words!"

    So the young wordsmith writes every day, sweating and writing and erasing in a notebook, struggling to allow vowels, consonants, and spaces to align...

    When the young one has finally written enough to bite letters, chew them into syllables, swallow words, digest them into phrases, and excrete poetry, (s)he prepares to show off the magic...

    Everyone hates it because no one understands it, and (s)he is devastated by the lack of appreciation for hard work...

    But Epiphany whispers in the ear of the phraseologist at that moment...

    "Some poets write to please others, but most write to calm themselves."

    So the personal poet never stopped writing the most beautiful poetry the world cannot understand...