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.