This Is Not Good Poetry

by jkMacCormack

Hard crusts of bread,
honey to my hunger,
gnawing in my mind’s belly
a beehive hidden behind the eyes.

This is not good poetry,
just poetry cracking open
the encrusted cases of hardened thinking,
the skull of overcomplicated metaphors
that lose their souls in the process.

This is not good poetry,
just poetry easing into
the kind of place where
good poetry goes wild.

no perfume
sharp teeth
unshaved legs
on all fours

rolling in the mud that squishes through
every last crevice
before the frenzied jump

over
the bluff into

deep pools of peace.