Poetry for bastards

Poetry is a last ditch effort,
A way to cohere the solid things,
That cannot be bound to you in life,
That you refuse to find in others,
Those things that teeter,
On the wire of need and want,
And fall in the pile of necessary,
When the heart stops,
Mere seconds after the pen.

Poetry; not an explosion of champagne,
Nor is it the vaulted cork,
Or the gaiety that follows,
It is instead the verse,
That follows moments that I would hate to relive,
So I revel in a safer explanation.

Poetry; not the observation of life,
Maybe as the explanation of your own,
And a plea to reason to stop the fight,
Of heavy words and interjected spite,
Of lost old loves,
Childish girls in vignette,
Sepia chemical hued recollections.