Each poem I write isn't good enough...

So I wright this.

words press against  the inside of my skull,

Something set them off.

I spray these pages with phrases like horse piss.

Then I gain control.

I sit back in my chair... "looks pretty rough."

Why did i wright this?

Was this crap in my soul? What if its so?

I start to laugh.

If my work is simply verbal piss,

this must be my toilet bowl.