I’m rhyming before pen marks paper,
Revising before I’ve formed my thought,
Serving up these half-baked perspectives,
Before tasting what’s in my own pot.
And the letter soup that I spoon from,
Gets condensed into a shiny tin,
I market it off like there’s rawness,
Though no introspection from within.
This poem’s packaged as a product,
Boiled down, reduced to abstraction,
All this effort to sound effortless,
Leaves meaning lost in redaction.