Free

Foolish is it not to succumb?
To fix the words of our minds
Leaving our artworks numb
And erasing us from the lines

To fret over mediocrity
And to fall into the uniform
I shall not let the rules drain me
To the mindlessness I shan’t conform

Does a soul’s mind think in rhyme?
Do our hearts beat in constant eighths?
Does life’s beauty play a straight line?
So why when we write must they change?

Why pour out the words into preset blanks?
And why rattle the mind for a rhyme?
All this at the cost of sincerity
So how then could I call my poem mine?