I’m trapped in iambic pentameter,
in the fourteen line sonnet my jail.
It all sounds just the same when I pratter,
when I speak sigh laugh cry whisper or wail.
It’s kind of like being a teenager,
so curfewed in my labs papers and school;
to think that I could find a new meter,
when all that I now have fits this one rule.
But when syllabic prison is the past
for me and every word and thought is free,
there’s only one sentence I want to last:
iamb iamb iamb iamb I’m me.
Sonnets and parents and rhyming and rules,
have little meaning when spoken by fools.
Now you know what the inside of my head looks like. Or at least,the syllabic parameters lining my brain like grocery aisles…
I'd love to see yours!