. Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. ― Leonard Cohen
What do you do when there is no freedom in art?When your controlled by rhyme schemes,
By repetition and meter?
I thought this was creativity and freedom,
No one said I had to sign on the dotted line,
No one told me these forms we’ve created are stencils,
And stencils, don’t allow for drawing outside the lines,
If there is no freedom elsewhere, give me liberty of art.
To write in every and any form, to choose the guides we’re taught,
Though I love a fantastic rhyme and a a unique poetry type,
I’m getting lost behind all the hype,
Whatever became of free expression?
Words that tumbled out of you that had no edges,
They came out and simply were,
They are; you can’t conform these thoughts,
They’re not meant to be placed in parallelograms,
To exist inside triangles, or even in infinity,
These words only are, and exist because they must,
Aren’t these words the language of your heart screaming out,
Your art in the form you can honestly behold and serve,
Finding strangers to comprehend this secret language is absurd,
Each heart speaks so significantly and in it’s own dialect.
We know the words, but do we know how they connect the lines back to a person,
Their inner most thoughts and feelings,
Passions running high and talent divides,
Those who run with freedom of words and say as they like,
Those that let the heart-words speak in loud voice,
Those who nurture a writer’s spirit know only,
The driving need and insistence laid upon your spirit when you were gifted with your voice.
This art that calls, jeers, and whispers; never giving way.
Zooming out to restful images of nature, lying in the grass where you can finally breathe.
Not suffocate on iambic pentameter, or be caught in couplets or quatrains.
Idyllic pastoral poetry might give you reprise,
Floating on clouds, powder puffs in the sky,
Sifting bare feet in sand and jumping as the tide licks your feet.
Writing your secrets of peace and tranquility; the sane that stops the insane,
Art still calls as a lark in the morning, a jaybird singing melodically,
Free-verse, or prose poetry, the futuristic form of many a poet,
A burden of the old and the new, confiding they find each other crude,
But any voice who has a song, just sing, your words or story,
Your words are diamonds, polished or rough, waiting to explode in jewelled luminescence.
Waiting to be incense to a world who needs to hear, breathe in the smoke of truth; have your Liberty.
Freedom of voice, it’s an art to be free to write,
What strikes you at the time, and to be able to stop, when exhaustion lingers,
To not be chained to an inner voice who constantly begs, “write.”
To let out that voice when you wish and write in your chosen method.
No stencils, merely pen and paper.
Maybe keys on the iPad, as it glows white light into midnight.
©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.