A breeze, a storm
What do you call poetry with no rhythm, no rhyme,
No sense of time, but you can see it with the mindís eye
The eye of the storm, where dreams are born?
But donít get me wrong. Poetry doesnít have to have a spine
Or legwork to stand on itís own.
Forlorn, a spree
A forgotten philosophy
A mind numbing, lightning fast ascent
and with our heads in the clouds
It's a signing contract
That pays no price
This form is free
The lines keep coming
The bars in a row
Like a prison, Iím a stow away,
Just go, away i go, from a box to another one
Ship-shape, entropy defined
Lemon- lime, a sublime kind of notoriety,
A spirit locked inside of me
Like black and white and white in black
Like a prisoner, in uniform
From inside, the spirit is torn
A Free form.