Let the pen birth
a new poem spring
that of which is raw
and cuts deep through;
that of which in tradition
does not conform;
that of which words bend souls.

Let the paper be not
the seeker of praise
but let it be the keeper of tears
that which fall
occasionally unnoticed.

Let the ink run beyond meters,
rhythms, or lines.
Let the words laugh,
let it cry, live or die.

Above all, let the poem be free
for that is how it is
supposed to be.