The Death of Poetry

The grey coloured straightjacket of poetry
I have like a Houdini freed me of this shackles
flowers and loveliness and lies
an unbearable burden I was getting buried
by a tonne of rotten blooms
I'm free!
Fly from tree to tree not seeing its foliage
soar higher than anyone before so elevated
the blue planet is a bauble on Christmas tree
and land on a potato field not seeing
its ordinary colours and brown soil
when flowers from Amsterdam are in season
I'm free to wade in a muddy rain-pool
wear yellow wellies towing on a string a tiny sail boat
which in my dreams become a three mastered schooner,
all this because I ain't no poet but a writer
and I can without hesitation use a double negative.