Poems don't have to rhyme.
What a way to spend your time,
Constrained within a paradigm.
But, admittedly when they do,
They are quite sublime,
Giving each word a reverberating chime.

Writer's block
Is like a rock,
A door that's locked,
A brain out of stock.

The mind is a forest
Still with places where no one goes
It doesn't disclose the secrets no one knows

There is no line between poetry and prose.
Because poems don't have to rhyme.