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
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