I'Ve Got My Magic Pie

I'm starting to think the starving poetist stands alone As the barest, most creatively nauseous human I'm starting to believe the whole face of poetry shifts my heart More than the guts and bones of diction The beautiful constitutes of poetic eyes beguile me The muscle of words alone have a weakened grip Poetry seems to be a locked door The key which fits will turn the lock, you feel the release Can you step inside though? Is the kerosene question I’m starting to realize every stanza of poetry Is a microcosm of the universe--elegant confusion Organized in a confusingly lucid juxtaposition I’m starting to recall that poetry is a magic pie Looking appetizing, posing on the windowsill Till knifed to find the berries unripe