My Apologies, Poets Everywhere Heretical, theoretical poetry Does not make me a bad person; I'm expounding on our profoundness, While the world around me is cursing. If we thought all our answers were perfect, There'd be no more reason to think. Poesy begins in the bowels of man, So, some of it really stinks; Not just mine, but everone's, As we dig deeper into our souls; We're never quite sure what we'll find In our myriad hidey-holes. I write them all down, regardless; And, later, I'll throw them away. I cannot help what is written, My heart had something to say.