Kill It Before It Grows

Somewhere the snooty scholars of the world quietly locked inside their dusty hall Under the dim light of a candle’s flame decide which label to put upon us all I see them now with my book in their hand yelling to destroy this before it grows Crying to the world “stop this idiot” he who disregards every rule of prose Running around their dusty libraries Banging their cymbals of fear and alarm stowing me away on some hidden shelf before I can do anyone some harm To all those so-called experts of the world who will stand upon their soapbox and cry That I am a con for not following their rules I tell you that I do apologize Perhaps it’s true, I am a foolish man to think this qualifies as poetry I do not know your rules of form and rhyme to write the way you tell me it should be If you’re the kind that cares about such things you might be right to call this a farce because I don’t use proper form and rhyme but to you I say “kiss my ****” Maybe when it comes time to place this book back upon those dusty forgotten shelves Someone who reads these words will find courage to be the poet that thinks for themselves