My paper withstands when my hand lands
My wrist understands all my mind’s commands
My paper bans nothing that my heart demands
My pen brands words like a printer scans
My desk stands through my scripted plans

It’s a victimless crime if poems don’t rhyme
To the senses, purely sublime
Literature to be read in double time
But I challenge that, rhyming’s nonsense

Senses can be stimulated
Tantalized and integrated
Articulated, but outdated to the rest of humankind

Words can lift you like breeze lifts leaves in the fall
Switching scheme and theme seems sacrilege after all

Leave your oblique rhymes and iambic pentameters at home, I couldn’t.