No More Poetry
I sat down to write a frilly, fanciful, flowery mess,
A plump and pleasant, perfect poem,
That convolutes everything I try to address.
It would have been beautiful
like a delicate dance round a fragile fire,
But you know what? You know what?
That is not what I desire.
No, I’m must convey what I wish to say
without linguistic theater,
It’s time, no more rhyme, no more word play,
And no more meter.
No more explanation through ciphers,
or calls to things that no one knows.
No more attempts to explain how I truly feel,
I’m content with leaving that to the prose.