Questions of much debate
about what makes a poem
great
make my brainwaves jump and
lurch
like children bored in
church,
each time I pen a word,
one a million times you’ve
heard,
or concoct a phrase so
trite,
that its parasitic blight,
causes the poem being
written
to be weak as, well… a
kitten.
But what is worse, it’s now
free verse
that reaps the critical
praises.
Words so precise they become
a vise
binding readers’ gazes
to universal meanings,
insights for the gleaning,
and metaphors that open
doors
in tight descriptive
phrases.
They say free verse is just
like prose
but with better words and
timing.
My problem shows in words I
chose,
I can’t stop
fucking rhyming!
This poem’s a bust; it’s
dust to dust,
I hear its death-knell
chiming
The words, born still, have
no appeal,
‘Cause I can’t
stop fucking rhyming!
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