An ode to you, to give thanks, I would guess:
For all of the times I turned to your best;
Or when I needed to let myself rest,
And on loose pages, let my brain get wet.
When I had to let the words out my way,
I turned to you for my something to say,
Not afraid to put it out on display,
Though I cannot say the same nowadays…
When I was a child, I loved you more. Why?
I didn't know all the rules to go by!
Rules of your genre, like rhythm and rhyme,
And of course, meter, or marching in time —
Yes, I do know rhyme, you know that as fact,
And your devices, which I rarely lacked;
Now, I count the beats, in each line I tap,
And I stress about stresses, and all that.
I even rethink my forms, rhymed or not…
Should it be in free-verse or a sonnet?
How about meter, or even the count?
I see why my peers don't like you one bit…
Despite all of that, I still enjoy you;
I just need more time to think you all through.
I prefer, on my time, to give you some room:
Let you take over and do what you do.
