A Personal Habit Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

That brilliant paradox 
on Keats' Urn would seem
the pinnacle of art.  
But truth is rarely beautiful 
I've learned
and beauty's seldom truthful,  
ask my heart.
In some way 
every simile is true,
yet faced with truth 
we mostly ask for lies.
While often pretty things 
please me and you,
an ugly image 
can be fresh and wise:

I get a metaphor. 
I pick at it for days. 
Perhaps it rose up 
from within—
a mental boil,  
or maybe something bit me
in my sleep,  
or scarred my soul's thin skin.
And when I pull it free,  
oh, such delight,
relief as well,  
'That's one less poem to write.'