What does a poet crave more than to be heard? To be understood. But here's the thing—the questions matter more than answers ever will. There could be a thousand answers, and none of them right. That's the duality. That's the poet's whole life.
The lust isn't want. Want is weak. Want is what most people do—they say they want something and move on. That want is nothing. The poet's lust is different. It's the burning that doesn't quit. It's the yearning that can never be satisfied, no matter how close you get. That vanity, that fire? That's lust. That's what separates the ones still reaching from everyone else.
The regular? They're the same person, except they stopped reaching. They chose surrender. But they didn't choose peace—they chose envy. They still feel the want. They still care. But now they watch the ones still trying, the ones getting close, with eyes full of resentment and longing. Both the poet and the regular are trapped by desire. The difference is they took different paths out of the same hunger.
And between them? Mystery. All the things we'll never know about each other. That gap is everything.