What's poetry got to do with it?

Poetry has never been, at least to me
The wave to float my boat
Not quite accessible, a bit of a mystery
Like a distant snob, a little haute.

I wondered if anyone other than the poet
Ever 'got' what the poem meant?
The reader's delusional, thinking "I know it!"
While the actual target is left without dent.

The shackles of idiosyncratic love or pain
Not to mention rhyme and meter
What could such limited sharing possibly gain?
Not that this thought seems the poets to deter.

"Give me", I'd always say, "some lengthy prose
Slow unwinding leisurely descriptions
Never mind those who call it 'verbose'
True literature shouldn't feel like witty encryptions"

Of late I've been forced to question this (it's hard!)
And acknowledge that I was too quick to judge
There's true genius in the rapper as there is in the bard
Once you accept the magic, it'll refuse to budge.

How does a sonnet, an epic, or a child's rhyme
Bring words to the unarticulated feeling
And do so within a few short lines and in no time
And in a way that might just leave you reeling?

Well, if what they say is true, and Imitation
Is truly the greatest form of Flattery
You'll understand this attempt towards creation
Of what I try vainly and in vain, to call 'poetry'.

Say we meet again

Say we meet again…
I pray that it is when the sun
Is in hiding and the stars
Are not quite aligned.

And upon your brow
There is a frown and the spring
Is missing from my step
And our fortunes are down.

Maybe I hate my life
And your face has gone ugly
My temperament’s not as forgiving
And your passion’s run dry

When we know there are no sunsets
Or romantic walks in the rain
And dreams are just neurons
Firing randomly while we sleep.

If, at that time, you still want to walk
With me in the rain, towards the sunset
And sleep just to dream of each other
Then, say we’ll meet again.

Thanks to Lindsey Buckingham (of Fleetwood Mac fame) for inspiration. Again.

Out-of-the-box experience

There's this box I keep in my closet. I guess you could call it my "TBD" box - where I put things that are To Be Discarded, things To Be Delighted with, To Be Delved into, To Be Dreaded, To Be Dreamed up, To Be Destroyed, or just simply, To Be Determined. Examples of said things include old bank statements, letters/cards from loved ones, confusing promotional offers, tax forms, half-finished sketches, copies of speeding tickets and free airline vouchers, respectively.
Once in about 2 months, I take out this box. Usually on a weekend such as this one, when I have a nagging responsibility I just don't feel like facing, so instead of feeling completely useless I turn to The Box.
I usually end up tearing up most of the stuff because it's obsolete or confusing and more or less pointless to retain. Some other stuff gets assigned new hiding places in shelves and accordion folders where I (hopefully) don't have to deal with them for a while. Or if I'm lucky, ever :)
Then there's the stuff that remains. The stubborn things that have lasted many cycles of such ritual cleansing. Like the letter my grandfather wrote in his old, formal style. Or the card my old roommate gave me before I moved. The brochure I created for an event I helped organize for a cause that was dear to my heart. The ticket to my first concert. The gift I bought someone close to me that I never ended up giving...and never ended up giving up either.
Funny how this pattern repeats itself every couple of months. To get into the box in the first place, things need to be stamped with a seal of "Important - pay attention to this!" Couple of months later, it's funny how financial offers, insurance papers, utility bills and other 'important' documents find their way into my recycling heap and all that remains is stuff that probably have no practical or economic value.
Goes to show how much economists know about value, huh?