To be a poet is arduous
To be a good poet even tougher
Occasionally catching
Thoughts rising from
The sludge of our minds
In no particular order
Gutting them like fresh fish
Staring at the raw ideas
Adding salt and pepper
Dressing them up in
Fancy clothing
To show them off
In black on white
A new-born baby set free
Into a cruel and dangerous world
Forever uncertain but hoping
That critics who themselves
Never write anything original
Will understand eventually
What poetry is all about