A/N: Poetry unit, a villanelle. I hate closed-form poetry. Therefore, because closed-form was a requirement: my rebellion against form. Enjoy, and review please! Concrit is always appreciated.

Bastardization of the Villanelle

I can’t hear my own thoughts.
I am swept up in a whirl, deafened
by the sounds of New York.

Bastardizations of poetry,
all of my Muses are screaming at me
and I can’t hear my own thoughts.

Other struggling poets sitting at silver tables
coated with spilled sugar, coffee cup rings:
these are the sounds of New York.

Her artists, their thoughts, their mumbling,
their notebooks open and pens flashing on subways and streets,
even when they can’t hear their own thoughts.

iPods blare too loudly, from the obnoxious, the few
who don’t have music running through their heads.
These are the sounds of New York.

The music is forcing its way into my head, almost painful,
and what hurts this much might even be my own;
I can’t hear my own thoughts.

Artists mumbling to themselves, on the streets.
We can’t hear our own thoughts.
A descent into madness?
These are the sounds of New York,
and they don’t pay the slightest heed to form.