It all sounds good.
Riding with the windows down and your music loud all throughout the hood.
Neglecting your homework,
putting hours in at work,
because you think that you should.
Emulating a sound that you know is
not yours,
because it sounds good.
You think it’s because you should.
You should follow your own voice,
rhythm, and beat.
Be free in spirit, and feel
the beat from ground
through your feet.
You can’t be her.
You can’t be him.
You can only be you.
Just, be you.

It's a rhythm,
Pounding in my brain,
For words to match.
That's the aim.

This poem has rules,
For which I make
The words to follow
Or the rhythm breaks.

Four lines a verse entails.
The rules are clear to me.
Lines second and last
Must have synchrony.

Some call this rhythm poetry,
To most a simple rhyme,
The words are much more to me.
They help improve my mind.

With every verse I write
New words come to me.
The rhythm and good luck
enhance my vocabulary.

Like the pulsing of a drum.
The rhythm has a beat.
The words, they march to that.
With measure and repeat.

Now the poundings stopped.
The words all written down.
I can rest a while
Listening for that sound.

Best movements made are subtle.
Years, been record needle down.
Embrace the rubber ring
king of the loop.
Stuck in spin, too.

Spent, cored, spun,
inside the toilet.
Spent, cored, spun,
inside the toilet bowl.

A format, everlasting --
   good!
A poet, ******* banality,
   out of steam.

Cored, spun, and bored,
skimming porcelain.
Cored, spun, and bored,
kissing porcelain.