The Prosaic Poem?

Restrictions lead to convictions of the mind.

My creativity should not have to do hard time.

Imagination is our only weapon against the battles of reality.

Logic and common sense release a common brutality.


Blacks and whites lead to nothing but grays.

That’s not what I want my canvas to display.

I need color.

Reds, blues, even greens.


Because my imagination is more complex then it seems.

I tear the seams from my reality

and sew it all together with the threads from my head.

I need my dreams to be more than that when I get out of bed.


Or else I’m living in a nightmare.

My first amendment rights are being breached.

Imagination is something more

than what teachers can teach.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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