Poetry is a sheath, a protective shell to protect its creator from the ravages of living in the real world.
No, the poet responds, poetry is a vision the poet sees clearly; the poem is the poet’s effort to share that vision with the world.
Nonsense! The poet is the embodiment of fragility, crafting a cocoon of words.
Not so, counters the poet. It is the opposite; opening oneself to the world through poetry is sometimes an act of courage and humility.
No, it is an act of heinous egotism, bathed in a wash of self-congratulatory torpor.
Aha, says the poet, yours are the words of a poet, are they not?
They may be the words of a poet, as all words are, but I use them differently.
The question, then, the poet replies, is whether words are tools or weapons.