If p o e t r y is all it's
                  cracked up to be
why can't I write it?

If it reaks of
        sophistication
why do I care to know it?

It is blind to
                  desired
flesh
but still seeps from every pore
as though it knew
                        what life is about.

It doesn't, though
                   know the soul
the pourous surface
surviving in this
                  the only place
I don't know.