Outlaw

 
 
 
I know I write in strictest rhyming form
In schemes that seem to flow like rivers do,
That some adore yet many others fear.
 
But damn! I’m a C-section from a storm,
That’s something no one understands or knew;
Ripped from the womb of Nature’s bitter tears.
 
On how to pen I never knew the rules.
I wandered on my own a vagabond,
An illustrator sketching words of verse.
 
I didn’t fuss or fret elitist fools,
With all their fancy ink I wouldn’t bond,
And ever since consider me a curse.
 
‘Cause here I am an outlaw to the last,
And was before I tried to scribe my first.
Be damn the rhyme, I write the future past,
To save a soul & quench an outlaw’s thirst.