Jack Kerouac once said, “an art dies when it describes itself instead of life.”
It’s a paradox of sorts, like the chicken and the egg, but it makes me wonder whether a writer writes a poem or the lines create the poet? Does ink convey an idea or do readers place meaning on the words? If a typewriter reveals a story but no one is there to read it, do the words still exist?
Life is full of mysteries: never stop discovering.
a haiku about
haiku is like a chicken
and egg…food for thought
© 2017 Joe Blend. All rights reserved.