Poesis Is Nothing To Do With Poetry

Underneath the grime and grizzle
Where the words will come to to weigh
I will try to understand.

What's a flowing script, of all?
When talking of the shopping mall
Or waiting for the bus.

For trying never got me
Where I ever want to go
But no
Some atheist dreamer
Need not break like winter
Still whispering
How
We would never dance

And as twilight move
Passion prance
And from this skin
I can begin
For in this hand I hold
A man
He garbles
Cut your hair and count your marbles

So it seems I never choose
When writing poems about truths
Or times or lives or messages
The poem writes itself you see

And so fuck it, now I'm free.