A rant at condoning

Between conturing and cleavage

It is often difficult for a poem to rise 

Forget the attempt, Shakespearean or Elliot'ish

The only readers are those who have depth

Now I would pay heed, if Frost recited short

"In incessant ponderings, ring my bell, lady fair'

For there is weight of Stopping by woods on a snowy evening 

Yet a face, or a giggling half hearted word scramble leads

Hath thine lust so overpowered thy sense of reasoning

Or has the deep waters of poetry given way to shallows

I often wonder, if scribblings of depth and meaning

Have been replaced with glitter and lipgloss now

I rather be shrewd to a point of being grossly unapologetic

For the depths seem so further from the shallows

I am a fish of the deep dark depths of feelings

These shallows have the advantage of what  femininity springs