Most poetry writing
Is like a nighttime ****,
Standing or sitting in the dark
Aiming as we let it flow.

We judge by the sweet sound
Of the deeper splash
When we’re on the target,
And hope our line stays true.

We squeeze most poems and ****** out
To get relief
From a nagging feeling
Deep inside.

The deviations of our stream
Spilled silent to the side
Oft require
Clean-up.

And the outcome
With that faint stale smell
Is probably better flushed away
Than saved or shared or admired.