I’m not a poet,
Just can’t be.
My meter is shit;
My verse is free.


I cram and cram,
Cover it with locks,
But my words won’t fit
In the goddamn box.


So I just give up.
What’s the point, really?
The problem is me;
It has to be.


Not the box;
Its structure is key.


But…is it?
Does art need rules?
Or maybe-hear me out-
Structure’s just tools.


Use it like crutches
To help you stand,
Arranging your thoughts
So others understand.


But when you’re fed up,
When you’re sick of the fight,
Put the box on the shelf,
And let your words


Take
Fucking
Flight


Release the valve,
Breathe the air of your soul
Onto the page,
Let the words ride you in a wave
Of creativity like a hurricane
Roiling overhead,
Your mind in the eye,
The storm in your pen


Scratching, scribbling,
Struggling to keep up
Vomit the words,
Set them free like an


Explosion


Throw out the box
Sure, it’s handy
But we don’t need it
What the spirit must say,
It’s not always pretty
It doesn’t fit
It shouldn’t have to


Rhyme is musical
Meter’s comfy to say,
But the verse in me
Proudly dances
Down
The
Page
Defying convention


Fuck the box
This poem is me
It’s messy, chaotic
But it’s real
And it’s free


I’m not the poet
The poetry
Is
Me