Strange, it seems,
To write poetically with no rhyme or rhythm.
Settling upon reason seems to be treason
to the poet of the box.
I dont see boxes. I am
a poetic tyrant
coloring outside the lines–
An unjust act for one who deems oneself a rule keeper.
But when the mind is free the pen has sovereignty to glide and slide and pause on the page.
Thoughts collecting from everywhere find a place to engage.
Focus
as thoughts collide at the crossroads,
saying one thing,
meaning another.
Giving mysteries over to the pretty name of metaphor.
The reading between the lines
the meeting of the minds
the sprinting of the hearts
the dodging of the darts…
Flame overtakes the circumstance
until circumstance prevails.
Everything dont burn when you fight fire with fire.
Some things are refined by it– and to some it doesnt even apply.
Fire made me strong enough to cut glass without shattering it.
Precisely.
Fight fire with water (an equal force in its own right)…
Fragile pearl I am no more
because the host no longer had to do the work.
Nor did I find it admirable to dwell where there was no air for me to breathe and feel accomplished when I didn’t suffocate.
The free mind has the audacity to change itself every ten seconds
and recreate itself at the most inopportune times.
Chaos to the rule keeper.
The free verse is for the free spirit
and the free spirit defies fear.
Fear lives in the box
that I dont see
as I color outside the lines
and give myself reason
to commit poetic treason
by writing poetically, at times
with no rhythm or rhyme.
Long live the poetress
possessing a fragile kind of strong
with her free mind and free spirit set in free verse stone.