What’s a sincere poem?
Is it the raw, disgusting, bits of life
I carefully omit,
so you never see me?

Or is it the things I do,
the grime, I’m burnt into,
that'll you'll always see
but never name out loud?

What is poetry?
Carefully created, thought upon,
and ruminated over?
Or scribbled in agony,
and vomited without thinking at all?