Poetic Form

I hate rhyme

And as a poet, that seems silly

I hate the flow it creates, the way

It reminds me of a kids book

It turns serious topics into

Something light, something easy

Sometimes, it works

And then, instead of hating rhyme

I loathe that I cannot do it in a way

That matters, in a way that means more

Than simple words on a page

My mortal enemy, poetic form

Collapses my style and reduces

Me to a scrambling squirrel

Climbing up, up, up

Only to look down and cringe

At the path of forgotten words

Definitions that collapse under

Just a shallow glance at a dictionary

And metaphors shrouding metaphors

And syllables counted, counted, counted

The strict meter prohibits all expression 

And poetry becomes something I long for but cannot stand


(NaPoWriMo prompt 5!!)