Words are just sounds put to the page.

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What is verse but cryptic thoughts,

giving time where should be naught?

Where rules and law can be disposed,

and new defines instead composed?

What do words mean when uncaged,

except a sound put on a page?

Where one can show their open face

without the risk of quick disgrace?

What, the landing of my letters

but convenient rhyme, unfettered?

A mind composed of rule and reason

so easily gives way to treason

of logic, instead, when hidden here

with no name given to wondering ear.

Emotion left unsaid and bound,

is readily free to toss around

hearts and feelings of companions

whose ears deny your true intention?

Why can't one simply say the truth,

without fancy stanzas and 'forsooth'?

Is poetry the only guise

in which the truth is sterilized?

Without a line break here and there,

is it simply easier to care?

If one is dying fast inside,

why not your feelings vocalize?

I wonder, but I cannot judge;

my mind is full of emotion smudged,

but loud I say "yes, I'm fine,"

and resort to trickery and rhyme.