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.