Poetic Licence to Kill

Sometimes the rhythm just flows

A writer somehow, he just knows

(Well it might be a she, I suppose)

And the feeling of inspiration just steadily increases and grows.

Like a big flower.

The words of poetry are sweet

And verse can often seem neat

As sentences seem to complete

Themselves without much input from the writer

Like magicness.

A poet has licence, it seems

To say that it’s not what it seems

And the words hold together like seams

As the poet paints a new world composed of his dreams

(or hers, in some cases.)

But today, I decided to kill

And sabotage what I write, so I will

By destroying its rhyme

Whilst at the same time

Completely disrupting the flow of its rhythm and destroying its magic(ness).

Like this.

:)

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