There was a time when I thought I could be a conventional poet.
But, what the hell is that?
I can only write what I’m given.
I can only write what inspires me.
I can only write away the itch eternal.
Such business, poems.
Such drudgery and precision.
Sounding sexy to my ear.
It is ego fondling, wrapped in hope.
It is necessity.
It is strange.
It is hidden truth.
Readers delight in the recognition,
And often look away.
It is hard to see so clearly to the core.
A conventional poet?
I don’t know what that means.