The Real Stuff
I don’t write the real stuff,
the dig down learn to deal stuff,
the fingers-deep insertion of hand into soul;
It’s too hard. The ribs guard their treasure,
every hope and every measure of grace
that the human race can manage
together with the damage
of unkind words, the pick of
carrion birds, the worse works
of what, waking, we never say.
Poet's Note: The prompt was to explore the dark...metaphorically. I think my new favorite genre of poem is the "excuse" poem...I feel I've become something of an expert. What can I say?