When I was small, my father said that poems need to rhyme.
I trusted him - why should I not? My brain was as a sponge.
But now that I am old enough, I'm sure to take the plunge -
The last frontier - free verse, I'm here! - expresses me in time.
Emotions are so hard to share (for me, of course, that is).
A mastery of meter, and of words a careful choice
Allow me to release my monologue, my inner voice.
In such a way I'm sure to say - well, sound - just like a whiz.
But if need be, my poetry is free as it is fleet.
Today, though, symmetry, my grace, and discipline demand
That I allow internal rhymes, and give the upper hand
To iambs fine, and in each line there must be seven feet.
I'm not always that way, though.
I'm proving it to you.
Inside strict boundaries -
Self-imposed, or it'd be no fun -
Of rhyme and rhythm,
My words blossom and bloom,
Exploding in meaning, and relevance, too:
My mind enjoys a challenge.
My eloquence soars.
All thoughts are deliberate:
All words are chosen with care,
Tested and tasted to see if they'll fit.
And so every poem
Fairer than prose,
More exact than spoken words,
More intellectual than all other communication -
I'm a shy one.
I want to make my words matter.
So I craft every poem with care
And with love.
And that is why I write.