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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The Fist in the Word Poetry is not a flower placed gently in the hair of a soft Sunday evening, It is the fist that comes from the blind corner and shatters your teeth without reprieving, It is the ape inside the man that screams when the word hits it square in the snout, It is the blood that runs beautifully down the white page... and cannot be stopped... and will not run out. I don't want verses that caress and lull and rock you and lie to you with grace, I want verses that burn through the stomach like an ice knife finding its place, I want you to read and slam the book shut and curse and rise up from your chair, I want you to feel that something in your chest has been broken... and nothing is left there. True beauty is ugly and dirty and sweating and real and raw and unashamed, It is the ape in a man's suit staring at itself in the mirror where criminals are named, It is the moment you recognize in the verse exactly what you hid beneath your masks, And the fist comes straight from the page... and there is nowhere to step back... nobody asks. The word that shocks is not obscene and not crude and not vulgar just for show, It is the naked truth without apology that breaks every protocol and every flow, It is the stanza that grabs you by the collar and tells you exactly what you don't want to hear, And leaves a mark on your face... and you go home... and you can no longer pretend... it isn't clear. The ape inside the man reads and recognizes and rages and throws its stones, Because the verse has seen its instinct hiding beneath all its clothes and all its tones, Good poetry is the shame you feel when someone catches you with your hand in the flame, It is the fist that does not strike the face... but drives straight into the soul... into the softest place of blame. So write with blood and with fear and with everything you never wanted to say, Let the ape howl from the verse and let the man take the blow without delay, For poetry that does not shock is just beautiful noise in the air that drifts and dies, But the real fist... stays... and hurts... and leaves its mark... and never fully dies.
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