The Box

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