What Poetry is


Poetry is my Xanax--
for I would be gone--
Locked away--
words on my wrist, not in my book.

Smile of Glasgow,
Face of clay.
Growing six feet underground.

Remembering the sweeter sounds,
Remorse for the three I care about--
first man, first born, and the god.
Away my crevices could rot.
So to keep myself in line,
for the firsts and father God
I write.

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