What’s a sincere poem?
Is it the raw, disgusting bits of life
I carefully omit,
so you never see me?

Or is it the things I do,
the dread, I’m burnt into,
that you’ll always see
but never say out loud?

What is poetry?
Carefully created, thought upon,
and ruminated over?
Or scribbled in agony,
and vomited without thinking at all?