It is not coined to achieve perfection
Nor create fancy words
Nor justify neurosis
Like Sylvia Plath's
Self-immolation

It does not seek out
The obstacles
The angst
The holy experience
We call "The Muse"
And the frenzied stirrings
Within our loins
To isolate the Eros
Of quick orgasms

Or free the pent-up greed
Of man's well-oiled manipulations

Nope, the poems
That I write
Are not poems

It does not sing
Nor form metaphors
Nor similes
Or even rhyme

It does not intoxicate the senses
Nor entertain the cynic
The sick
The fool
Nor my cerebellum

To claim something unique
Or remotely original

What do I care about somebody else's art?
What do I care about lyrical stanzas?

There is no poetry
In the barbed verses
Of colorful lies

I write in line after line