They tell me to express myself in short,
And I am told to write in a set way.
The contradiction brings itself to court,
While I am neither black, nor white, but grey.
I torture my expression to powder,
Then pack it into lines until it halts.
Emotions feel the pain and scream louder,
But soon we dry them up in censor salt.
I wish there were no rules to be followed,
When it comes to composed artistic thought.
If what we need to say could be swallowed,
Then grab a plate and see not all is taught.
Your mind speaks in debates or through a curse,
While I am told to fight it into verse.
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