No Wrong Answer

Can you imagine a world with no equation?

Nothing could be lost in translation.

Or obfuscating, just captivation

It’s just the connotation in your poem

And in your poem, be who you want to be

From the simplest man to your darkest fantasy

A clerk named Finn selling some spaghetti

Or a monster hunter who is totally slaying

You’re slaying this rhyme time in the right time

Whether in the daytime or the nighttime

It doesn’t even have to rhyme sometimes

You should remember to have fun with rhythm

Your words form the rhythm, so don’t be afraid

To express the things that you want to say

Don’t downplay your display and inveigh

To say you are cliché, because you’re not

You’re not even if the words that you want to express

Seem to be said everywhere, more or less

The point is for progress, not for regress

Because nonetheless, you’re the best at being yourself

Yourself, you are one in a million

Screw that, one in a billion

Even better, one in a trillion

Because it is your view, your facts and opinions

 

No technique or certain physique

Hell, it could be doublespeak

Your rhymes are weak, just critique

But that’s what makes it unique

You can say what you want to say

You can do what you want to do

You can repeat the same exact words

You can do what you want to do

 

And now you can change up the rhythm even in the middle of the poem

If you think that’s the best way to make it flow

And sometimes you want to change up the style

To feel a little more comfortable

Wherefore doth thee feeleth such constrictions and pressure f'r th're is nay restrictions in poetry?

Our minds art arous'd by this did light'rature as t solves problems 'r holp receiveth ov'r things

Ev'ryone declares poetry as a dying medium 'r a trend of previous lifetime

But th're art nay w'rds to describeth the way t hadst affectioned our lifestyle

 

No technique or certain physique

Hell, it could be doublespeak

Your rhymes are weak, just critique

But that’s what makes it unique

You can say what you want to say

You can do what you want to do

You can repeat the exact same words

You can do what you want to do

 

You know what, screw it

I’m going free verse

Because there’s something I want to get off my chest

For the last few months, I’ve been trying my best

Just to make the perfect poem

A poem that I will back on and compliment

Compliment on its language and its view

A unique poem that makes me happy

 

But every time I start to make a poem

I call it stupid and dumb and annoying and a waste of time

I look at myself in the mirror and get mad

Because I can’t finish what I had started

I think my ideas are perfect and I think my words are great

But for whatever reason, when I put pen to paper

I just want to throw it away

 

And my rhymes are mediocre, at best

And I think my rhythm sucks

Which is strange because I can dance to a beat

And I play and sing and everything

Why do I ask my friends if it is okay?

It’s as if I can’t make up my own mind

It’s as if I can’t make my own decisions

Poems made me feel stupid

 

But then I had this strange epiphany

Just midday in the middle of doing something not that important

I started thinking of something

And that thing led to another thing

Which led to another thing

By the end of that day, I felt a connection

My brain knew what to say

 

If I can be me

And learn how to be

A boy made of pure glee

Then you can see 

Through all the debris

How to find the key

Call it insanity, I call it reality, this part of me

These words can put me in a sense of esprit

 

I DON'T care anymore.

I DON'T care if I win.

That was never the point

It was not intended

It's about me

This is all about me

What has it taught me?

What does it mean to me?

 

A poem is a notion about devotion or emotion

Engaging brains in locomotion, for there is no potion

No magic or equation, or calculations

The admiration is the specialization

 

So, can you imagine it with me?

Can you imagine a world with no equation?

Just reminisce and see

Nothing could be lost in translation.

 

There is no wrong answer.

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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