Are we known by the way we write?

Recently, I have had the opportunity to observe a great deal of verbal give and take, all revolving around the use of language. Disclaimers to the contrary, we know each other only through our words because of the very nature of this medium, and consequently form an opinion of other people solely on what is said... show more Recently, I have had the opportunity to observe a great deal of verbal give and take, all revolving around the use of language. Disclaimers to the contrary, we know each other only through our words because of the very nature of this medium, and consequently form an opinion of other people solely on what is said and the manner in which it is said. In truth, both of these are open to interpretation. Some here claim to want honest, constructive critique, but when it is offered -- when specific flaws are pointed out -- they react angrily and vengefully, indeed in ways unjustifiable to any reasonable mind. You see this is not a matter of reason so much as one of emotion, of identity; many who write poetry do so solely because they feel the need for self-expression. I can scarcely find fault with such a motive; indeed, self-expression lies at the very core of why I am now writing this brief passage. However, this is not poetry, but it appears in the poetry section because it is the place where recent history suggests that it has become most compelling -- the question of the moment. Others write poetry of a more structured nature, perhaps of greater or at least different philosophical concern, because they are by nature drawn to such matters, and the adherence to forms represents for them a challenge, something they enjoy, a reflection of the way their minds organize, through habitual practice, the multifarious phenomena of the world. Must it be that the two worlds, and the multiplicity of shades that connect them, remain forever hermetically sealed one from another, at odds with one another. It is one thing to disagree, quite another to lack the acumen and reasoned judgment to at least consider a different perspective. And yet this lack has become all too prevalent. Many will say that they find this question off-putting and will question why it is here at all; shouldn't we be posting poetry here, you say?! Right you are; and reading it too! And accepting the fact that others will be different than us (so obvious, non?), not only in style and aesthetic judgment, but also in opinion. So my questions to you are these: Are we more than words; do we deserve the dignity of people too? Are we justified in feeling anger towards others merely because of stylistic differences, or must we find some other justification (and what do you think that a reasonable justification would be)? Should we reject and cast away in frustration the things that frustrate us, or recognize in that frustration our longing to change, to embrace, to be better? Are we more than words, and are we ever known by the way we write? These are important questions that all poets, indeed all educated and responsible people, must answer for themselves -- again and again...
Update: Please answer the question, address the issue... you only serve to illiustrate my point, and it needs no illustration.
Update 2: neonman, I'm sorry for your confusion, but I'm not the person you speak of; of that I am certain.
Update 3: I see faces here that I've never seen at one of my poems; you are welcome there too.

Thank you all for your wisdom (or whatever you remembered to bring, as the case may be). I am sure you have all done your best, and for that you are to be commended...
Update 4: You are all known by the way you write, and yet each is a mystery, especially to himself. That is the tragedy and triumph, the illusion and inescapable reality, the majesty and utter poverty of language. The best things are unspoken, the second best misunderstood... life here, and elsewhere, is a temple of texts,... show more You are all known by the way you write, and yet each is a mystery, especially to himself. That is the tragedy and triumph, the illusion and inescapable reality, the majesty and utter poverty of language. The best things are unspoken, the second best misunderstood... life here, and elsewhere, is a temple of texts, and all should be opened, all should be read. Good evening...
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