I hate poetry, I just don’t see
the need to express with prose and rhyme,
all “Woe is me” soliloquies using words that try,
but have no place in present time or those gone by.

Caging natures beauty in couplets poor,
Cleaver word play if not deigned to bore then what?
Broken grammar to fit the plot yet such a chore
to resign life’s highs to pentameters, and lore.

Paint a scene with paint not words, love is to be heard,
not reduced to withered scribe and pain and war
should not be tied to fragile paper by those who hide
from facing the life we share together
find time to talk, and friends to treasure.