It seemed like Roger did before he was able to pull off The Wall tour. Iirc when they did Live Aid Roger was much more diplomatic with his public statements that he'd been in decades.
Once that first wave of The Wall tour happened, it seemed like he stopped wanting to.
Clearly by its 2nd trip though the US he realized he didn't need Gilmore to print money anymore. So. Yeah. There won't be a reunion.
Roger was still learning to write lyrics when Piper happened. Since Syd went nuts, became completely dysfunctional and had to be fired. So. Yeah. Those early albums are not really innovative lyrically. Roger didn't really come into his own until Meddle or thereabouts.
Sorry, I can't take the lyrics of a person that drools on himself as being genius. That's kind of a non-starter for me.
As is I don't see poetry there. I see insane ramblings.
You wouldn't see poetry if it wasn't sold to you by the entertainment industry as genius. You only see it as poetry because it was a commodity they marketed to you, to make a profit.
If you like you, only explore the surface of the market and buy what they sell you and never dig deeper, then yes I guess you are right.
Also Syd Barrett never stated he was a genius, Roger Waters on the other hand seem to think he himself is one though.
I guess this famous poem by one of the big acclaimed poets of the early 20th century William Butler Yeats is the work of a mad man too in your eyes then?:
The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of
Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?