We want not words
Of rhyme nor reason,
We wish for verbs
Words of doing and done.
No time to be kept,
No analysis of style,
We simply want words
Scattered
About
A page, call it poetry.
The story is there,
No difficulty in
Interpretation,
Is it sin?
To take words from within?
To make in a form that may begin
Or end with endings that are akin?
Any fool might make a story
By breaking up lines in a paragraph,
But can they describe it in emotion?
The diction is gory,
Chopped up, sing epitaph,
A poem written in commotion.
A rhyme is no force than a song from a Lori,
Free verse may be fine for more than just a laugh
But the story is lost in an ocean.
A sea of chopped stanzas,
Direction with no form.
But the ship might still sail,
Any port in a storm.