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I read this poem by a Lisbon poet and enjoy it so much I thought I'd put it here.


Autopsychography by Fernando Pessoa


The poet is a faker

Who’s so good at his act

He even fakes the pain

Of pain he feels in fact.


And those who read his words

Will feel in his writing

Neither of the pains he has

But just the one they’re missing.


And so around its track

This thing called the heart winds,

A little clockwork train

To entertain our minds.


yeh, that's good. I'm a faker myself. But I call it fiction. 


The more crafted, the more fake, perhaps. There might be mileage in free verse, if authenticity is the thing. But maybe the thing is delightfully crafted stanzas. There ya go: a fake opinion. Nice poem.

Parson Thru

It reminds me of William Wordsworths comment that poetry is, "emmotion recollected in tranquility".