Most poems are pounded out
in emotional flesh, sometimes
physical skin scalped feelings.
It’s a Jesus hanging on a cross
a Mary kneeling at the bottom
not knotted in love but roped,
a blade of a bowie knife
heavenward.
I look for the kicker line
the close at the bottom
seek a public poetry forum
to cheer my aspirations on.
I hear those far away voices
carrying my life away-
a retreat into insanity.