We Are Not Real Verse

We are not a real poem.
No words in print say so.
No words will vouch for us.

No words will say they wish
To read, or be like, us.
No words try to steal us.

But we are words in lines.
That we are. We are lines
Of words that claim we’re verse—

Won’t make us real to those
Who feel the need for real.
What if this poem were named

Just to say we weren’t verse?
We’d feel known, first. Then worse.