If poetry is self-expression,Each confession cedes possession,
And I don't think I'm enough to go around.I'll spill my guts and spill my ink,
I'll mix my soul for you to drink,But what if you don't want a second round?
So prose is safe and wit is shield,
And every shrug's a sword I wield,Against the creeping front of dull cliche.
And I'm not saying it's not real,But if I flaunt Achilles' heels,
Maybe you won't see my feet of clay.