Why Poetry

Considering that poetry sucks
and lies
and tries
to paint with black and white and
colors pure
so sure
Why then, one thinks, poetry?
I dug deeply
Into my mind
not sure what I'd find
not sure what I found
dug deep underground
or, underhead.
Simple fact, I struck the bottom,
the floor of my sea of ideas,
and there, the sea bed
the mantle
the limen
It was fucking made of poetry.
I'm made of poetry.
Imagine my dismay.