Full License to Write Something Stupid - Every Syllable Counts!

Creative Rule # 1 - when you get the vision, you by all means necessary must follow it, explain it, produce it, develop and express it. Write it down and create it. Why this is so hard, it's not fully clear. But the energy and confidence required to do so at times might seem almost ludicrous, impossible. It's as if, for whatever reason, the safety of life and your own personal status quo, your GD quotidian tells you to not shake the boat, to leave it all alone, that it's ok to let it go and just relax and fall back and just succumb. Watch some cable. Have a baby. Order a pizza. Start a family. Buy a large screen TV and a home theatre system. Hence, the automatic entropy that life pretends to demand, though, like Medusa writes, it's all quite a self-induced saftey sham. But what if I were like DP? Could I be? (He was a poet from day 1, I have learned - yet he breathes poetic language, as naturally from breath.) What if I had the unholy gumption, the superannuated cajones and righteous temerity to simply assume that all my words, every single fucking goddamn mofo syllable, were pure art, pure glory, pure relgion? How could it not be otherwise? Is this not what it takes to be a poet, to sing the praises of heaven inside the smallest, cheapest, most squalid of phrases? Why the fuck not? Does not this require a full on hardcore revolution with every sentence? Am I alone in my own revolution of poetic language? Or, is this egoism the province of every writer?