They teach us poetry
In dusty classrooms
With seats lined up in rows
Ballad, sonnet, metaphors
They are the proper prose
But we who bleed
In blackened ink
Have no such use for rules
We are the colours
We are the words
I create without your tools
But still we sit
Row by row
And learn to write in lines
My pen longs to dance
Across the page
Defying,
Rhyme by rhyme