Writing poetry is like
taking your clothes
off in the doctor’s office.
In the cold white light,
You
stand naked
before strangers
With all of your flaws and blemishes —
Varicose veins
And cellulite -
That unhealed scar
on your heart,
scab crusted over
feelings.
The ice pick
puncture mark
of yet another
Rejection Slip,
But writing is so easy
You just have to
open up a vein
and bleed.
