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!