In reading many poems written in the modern day,
One finds that this is not like those in, really, any way.
Tradition, to the men of now, remains in ancient times
When words of now-dead men were trapped in meter and in rhymes.
But I can write in free-verse too
My stream of consciousness delivering thoughts
To your eyes via the expressway of my pen
Revealing and advancing issues important to me,
Which I know should be important to you too.
So I cry out.
Using meter and rhyme when I deem it necessary.
At my choice.
With my voice.
And maybe lines like these will get me published
Or have people listen to me in coffee houses and at civic meetings.
And they will clap or snap and appreciate my work,
Seeing how much I care about others, yet
Never realizing that every line I wrote in this section was in the first person.
So while it seems these words indeed contain a tale to tell,
They stay imprisoned, captive in their rhythmic, rhyming cell.
Containing value still despite restrictions such as these,
Which does not come from what the poet says, but what he sees