it's nothing glamorous.
there's nothing pretty here.
when you're a poet words
pour from your pores and your belly
turns hard.
muscles tighten, bones chip
(and you often get mad instances
of carpal tunnel)
pounding syllable upon syllable
at the punching bag before you.
an empty screen.
a yellow notepad.
you pound and pound until there's nothing
left.  nothing for fanfare
nothing for friends
or publishing
or shares or notes.
the words cake on your skin
and wash away
but you sweat them out again.
you've taken up the task of
solving the world's problems
when you first set out just to write
something nice for your girlfriend.
trust me, man,
this is a loser's game.
there's nothing pretty here.