A Lesson in Writing Fractured Metapoetry

Every poem I write
is a stolen conceit,
A drifting deceit
I nabbed off a random page
in my fictionalized autobiography,
Written with a broken pen
I got from broken dreams
that leak out of my ears
--just disappears--
in between the lines
that divide my life
into tiny little compartments
of a more manageable size;
It is not wise
to build towers
like a convenience store grab bag,
The whole thing will crack,
The bells will crash.