We right our souls as we
Write our souls because we must,
Or like confetti, the words'll bust
Out from us willy-nilly, and
Poets cannot let words simply sully out,
Cannot scatter and strew them about,
Without some kind of form
(Even formless forms like this need be).
And somehow we get it there,
Intentionally, we put it there,
For all the cosmos and universe to see.
Sharpies permanent on the Internet,
Our works, our marrow, the
Underbelly passage to our innards, the
Dark and dank and dolorous in us, the
Sun and star and silly in us, the
Topic of the day in us, we
Contest for cash and credit, and
Kilos of kudos to the winner.
But, not really all the truth, I suppose,
We have no control over the prose,
Center stage, exposed,
Red and raw and real -
Poets write to right our souls,
And no competition there;
We've each of us, already won.
