A person asked me why I like
the tiresome way of writing poetry.
Free style he says and so despite
here I am still in despondency
due to his denial of my ability.

Alright so I told him, free style ay?
To you I shall only write freely
but at the end if you still confuse not
then I will even clean your snot.

Maybe not maybe so no one
knows the ability of a young
writer's choice of words so that
whatever you read next you plead not
the confusion but the understanding to have.

Up and down back and forth
what is it to you soothing sort
an emotion no longer lasting not.
Why bother the question of poetry
when you can look at the sky and cry,

"Ah ah ah a bird is at fly
oh no what shall I by myself
do to it when the law forbids shoot?"

Up and down back and forth
front and behind long and last
time goes by goes by so fast
Aging now or renewing birth?

A change of clothes he tried
to look exactly like the bird, denied
so of even such a masquerade
afraid of the embarrassment he trade
with a neighbor so near a short a tank
a word of thank not from no one
but inside his heart he did indeed.

So next comes the journey in need
"Oy oy oy, stop staring my boy."
A boy comes by with laughter in face
a sneer, a spit, a career of comedian no less.
"Oy oy oy, stop your act old man."

Old man? Old man? Buzzing flies
surround his head inside
truth or false no one decides
but the thought of a boy to cry
such words he couldn't no less imply
that indeed old man he might.

Run run and inside he becomes so
and so he panicked the thought of fear
at the touch of a mirror he flushed
a color deep red on his cheeks to hide
the wrinkles the cry of skin old dry.

Rush outside he again see
the sight of the boy flickering rocks
"Oy oy oy, who is old young boy?"
A stare a sight of ignorance the boy
held to himself the laughter but cried,
"Oy oy oy, stop your act old man."

Old man? Old man? Buzzing flies
surround his head inside
truth or false no one decides
but the thought of a boy to cry
Such words he couldn't no less imply
that indeed old man he might.

A bucket in hand a pole another
a hat surround the top his head altogether
determined the look he got out his house
"Oy oy oy, want to go young boy?"
A little walk further a little walk back,
"Oy oy oy stop your act old man."

Old man? Old man? Buzzing flies
surround his head inside
truth or false no one decides
but the thought of a boy to cry
such a word he couldn't no less imply
that indeed old man he might.

Indeed he stopped his act
but not so because he grew old
but so because he in his grave
cannot continue further the choice
of acting in part his mind in joy.

So let me tell you my friend
poetry is for the mind to express or defend
the deepest and most emotional of human mind.
Rhyming is also another style in kind
so might it be the next time you read my line
please say indeed my work is fine.

Fine.