I WROTE A POEM

I wrote a poem.

It did not rhyme.

IT DID NOT RHYME!

They said: “What kind of poem is that supposed to be?”

And the paper crinkled and flew into the garbage can.

They said: “Better sweep the porch and peel the potatoes.”

And so I did.

I swept and peeled, and I stuck my pencil into my pencil-box.

They spoke many times about what I was supposed to do,

And what I was supposed to become.

They even said I might be pretty some day. 

If only...

So life went on, and things happened.

And I held my thoughts.  And I spoke at proper times.

What did it matter?

You see, “...a rhyme is just a silly little ditty. 

And a ditty is just a brief excuse for not trying hard enough,”

They said.

A poem, a genuine poem, cannot rhyme. 

It must be deliciously deep, and a puzzlefactation of the panic, the pain,

And the ecstasy surrounding life’s struggles,

I suppose.

I SUPPOSE.

I think I’ll find a pencil with a big eraser.

I think I’ll write.

I think I’ll erase more than I’ll think.