Giving poetry a bit.
The best thing poetry has going for it, is that it gets it's
strength from a place not accesible by the rational world.
Hidden streams feed in, images eddy; temporal and etheral
as dreams and smells. But poetry has had it's claws
removed. The days of the mad, bad, and dangerous
to know Byron have disappeared. Now poetry is common,
mundane, and innocous. Without the Victiorian morees
of Elizibethian england, poetry lacks bite. But there
is perhaps a hidden dagger of eros in the muses cloak...
We always have the erotic impulse, a sweet sadistic thrill,
or an illict desire that begs to be framed in verse. Of course,
your poem won't be published. Of course the masses
won't kneel before your lines. But hey, your lover
might. So pull out the pens, and scribe a world of dreams.
Be mythic, blow everthing out of proportion, and be ruthless
in execution.