True poetry requires an exquisite sensitivity that is so elegantly present to experiencing existence, a sublime, artistically rendered expression of the present.
But as soon as one reaches into the mind’s depths for the perfect gem of a word, the moment that one is trying to express disperses. It becomes pixels and crystals that flutter away, precisely because we have stopped, stepped outside it, tried to look at it. A jumble of inconsequential letters, through loose fingers, falls to the ground.
And the moment of true distillation of experience into word pictures is gone. It is no longer.
Therefore, true poetry does not exist.