My free verse, where are you going? Breaking that line, you’ve grown up a monster. You’ve gone too far, when a few words would do it. Argh, you started looking like a prose.
(By the way, you look pretty…
ugly, you know.)
Now you constraint yourself
to a word or two
to be disguised as a poem.
You like to believe you have a lot to say. “Not so fast… Poet, don’t stand in my way. You granted me freedom of movement.”
‘Right, but time to sleep.
Tomorrow I hope I find you under my bed.
T!el Fajardo
Mar. 4, 2024
Reveries That I Call Poetry 