Strange, it seems,

To write poetically with no rhyme or rhythm.

Settling upon reason seems to be treason

to the poet of the box.

I dont see boxes. I am

a poetic tyrant

coloring outside the lines–

An unjust act for one who deems oneself a rule keeper.

But when the mind is free the pen has sovereignty to glide and slide and pause on the page.

Thoughts collecting from everywhere find a place to engage.

Focus

as thoughts collide at the crossroads,

saying one thing,

meaning another.

Giving mysteries over to the pretty name of metaphor.

The reading between the lines

the meeting of the minds

the sprinting of the hearts

the dodging of the darts…

Flame overtakes the circumstance

until circumstance prevails.

Everything dont burn when you fight fire with fire.

Some things are refined by it– and to some it doesnt even apply.

Fire made me strong enough to cut glass without shattering it.

Precisely.

Fight fire with water (an equal force in its own right)…

Fragile pearl I am no more

because the host no longer had to do the work.

Nor did I find it admirable to dwell where there was no air for me to breathe and feel accomplished when I didn’t suffocate.

The free mind has the audacity to change itself every ten seconds

and recreate itself at the most inopportune times.

Chaos to the rule keeper.

The free verse is for the free spirit

and the free spirit defies fear.

Fear lives in the box

that I dont see

as I color outside the lines

and give myself reason

to commit poetic treason

by writing poetically, at times

with no rhythm or rhyme.

Long live the poetress

possessing a fragile kind of strong

with her free mind and free spirit set in free verse stone.