A Poem Is Never Fiction

O, no madam, a poem is never fiction Not the ones I write That got some throbbing of loins and heart Some blood squirting from the lungs Some epileptic seizures, so the mouth froths But these are solid substances of my life The anxiety of today and the sleepless night I rhyme love with hate And turn pain into broken syntaxes But every bit happens Thunderclouds just take a long time to cry Tears are suspect in the lost of virility Why would you call a poem fiction then How can the imagination lie When poetry writes the science of the modern world? O, no madam, a poem cannot speak a lie Unless you confuse it with a bride.