Poetry

in its refined, unwavering, unconcerned form

is not pretty

It grabs us by the throat

and places us in the mirror,

naked, framed, revealed

with our daily frauds

and innermost forgeries

Most of us simply play poets,

to glaze and enamel

our all too human filth

Poetry is not an embrace,

but a hard slap in the face;

a tough roll call

and stone cold marching orders

All our pretty faces are denied