A Poets Prerogative

A POET’S PREROGATIVE We right our souls as we Write our souls because we must, Or like confetti, the words'll bust Out from us willy-nilly, and Poets cannot let words simply sully out, Cannot scatter and strew them about, Without some kind of form (Even formless forms like this need be). And somehow we get it there, Intentionally, we put it there, For all the cosmos and universe to see. Sharpied permanent on the Internet, Our works, our marrow, the Underbelly passage to our innards, the Dark and dank and dolorous in us, the Sun and star and silly in us, the Topic of the day in us, we Contest for cash and credit, and Kilos of kudos to the winner. But, not really all the truth, I suppose, We have no control over the prose, Center stage, exposed. Red and raw and real - Poets write to right our souls, And no competition there; We've, each of us, already won.