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Within the shackles of the verse that's free,
so void of precious rhyme,
I weep.
This meterless torment
so heavily weighs
like burdens of woe
upon the exquisite composition
of structure.
These words
randomly spewed upon the page
lie lost amid the dismal darkness
of directionless abyss.
Must the blissfulness of cadence
be so rudely mocked
or lyrical design
fall discarded
with such reckless abandon?
How can one's heart sing
while wallowing in unrelentless chaos?
Might beauty possibly still surface
amidst the misguided mayhem
of verse
so visibly distorted?
These snares that bind my creativity,
so seemingly unjust.
Please free me from the confines
of this poetry
they call free verse.
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