Words are my enemy,
Sentences my friend,
Paragraphs my addiction
That I have to try and,
End.
I argue with my enjambments,
My cesura’s are slightly worried
As I lose control on my pentameters
And rum amok through my notebook.
The scrawls, and competing poetic
Forms scrap and fight. Clash and
smash their brutal path through
my imagination.
And the riot police cannot stop it.
And the pious cannot stop it.
And God cannot stop it.
Only me.
It does seem to take on a life of its own, doesn’t it? I feel ya. Nicely expressed!
There should be a poetic riot police, armed with capital letters and full stops and pepper spray and dénouement. Convert some of those unruly sonnets into good upstanding vignettes.