Some poets write heady and beautiful prose.
Others rhyme only and why, no one knows.
Perhaps there is something wrong in the head.
Let's peek at this one asleep in her bed.

Lift up her hair; look under her hood.
Everything there looks just as it should.
But wait!  Over there, see that wrinkle so fine?
With pen put to paper, it comes out as rhyme!

There must be a default to fix this strange thing.
But how to begin it - with scissors or string?
The brain doesn't like it when shaken about.
You must take care nothing good will fall out.

A '37 model, it says here inside.
They built them to last back then with such pride,
I doubt we ever could find a spare part.
How would we even know where to start?

Perhaps now's the time we rethink this whole thing.
What makes her rhymes special makes this one's heart sing.
Let's close down her top and leave this one alone,
She's doing no harm as she has well shown.

Perhaps we should let her poetry grow.
It may, in fact, help others to know
That each of us are not made the same.
And that includes all who share the same name.

She knows our uniqueness sets us apart.
We all have our secrets sewn deep in our hearts.
And if we think sameness is what all should be,
Imagine how dull and boring we'd be!

She'd say stick to being  just who you are,
Build on your strengths and follow your star.
Write what you wish and say what you will,
But do it with kindness each goal to fulfill.

She'd say we should use all the gifts we have honed,
Look back and see all the wisdom we've sown.
Yes, I say we let this one be..
Close her up now, and set her rhymes free!