Sitting on my bed eating noodles
And thinking of when
People didn't like rap in their poetry
After all, it is not rap
That makes a poem beautiful,
But the passion, emotion
And the creation of the soft, silky
Syllables as they slide out of
Your mind and onto the page.
Where is the rap in that?
Why is my poetry to be squished
Underfoot,
My heart trampled on
My pearls before the swine
Because it contains no rap
Nor rhyme
Does a poem need these things
To be beautiful?
According to those who
Judge it so narrowly
They cannot see the beauty
To them words coming
Out of my mouth
Must be in order
A straight line
But where is the beauty in that?
Art is not made from straight
Lines but from curved ones.
Poetry is not made
From rap and rhyme scheme
But from the strings and emotions
Of the heart,
When plucked,
Made a mellifluous melody.
There is beauty in that.