by Cali Brooks
O, lines that this desire makes foul and mean,
Will you confound, constrict, conspire and bore?
Would that I away with rules and free thee,
As I yearn to write unrhymed, ever more.
In black, in blue, in an angry scratched red,
I cannot find my soul with this cruel pen.
Instead I curse thee for hurting my head,
And I compare thee to a lion’s den.
No summer’s day, no love to be at hand,
For pentameter is my blackest night.
I find instead a full page to be grand.
But you do not ken, nor care for my plight;
My assignment is done, and thus, I cheer,
So give my kind regard to Sir Shakespeare.