Things are what they are. And what we make of them, really.<p>Poetry is art, and art is inherently subjective. Someone's trash is someone else's beautiful work of art. Indeed, I think, with time, I have been able to appreciate art as an art form (in the way it conveys a message, or requires some particular effort or technique, etc) and art as something that simply...touches someone in some way.<p>So I've found the best poetry to be terrible, and the worst poetry to be incredible. And everything in between. Who am I to truly judge what is good or bad? By which I mean: who is anyone to truly judge what is good or bad? If people find beauty in or are touched by some piece of art (even if the author did not intend it as art), then it is something worthy of that designation — a good piece of art. I guess this is somewhat of a hot take, but it is what it is — just another _thing_. While we're on the topic of things, here is one such other thing — a(n arguably bad) poem on those dastardly things:<p><pre><code> Things (09/01/2025)
A thing is what a thing
ought not to be to us.
It ought not to be anything,
other than the thing it was.
If it becomes something different,
then it was never something.
And, then, it knows it's indifferent
— for it knows not it's a thing.
We know not of it, either
— how can we be sure it is?
Could it not just be a fever,
or another thing like this?
I pay no mind to such things,
nor do I pay any feelings.
In fact, I pay no mind to anything
— and isn't that quite the thing?</code></pre>