Reading “real” poetry
I wonder if I do
Write
Real poetry
There is nothing hidden
Nor convoluted
Murmuring of innards and thoughts
Half dreamt up and hiding around the edges of my tongue
To speak them aloud would be difficult
But writing them down
Renders them
Simple
And simple is how I like to keep it
For whatever reason we need it
Poets each write with the ink of their own DNA
So I guess no one can compare what we say
And if we do
It is just ego
And ego never said a poetic thing anyway
So this will do
It’s all that seems to have appeared today
