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