Forced poetry –
like nails on chalkboard,
so full of overused clichés.
To avoid that hand of doom,
or those who sleep like the dead,
tucked tightly in their bed,
with eyelids heavy as lead,
one must write like in a womb.
Look with fresh eyes on the world,
see the sun reflect the ground,
watch the grasses come unwound,
know that silence cuts the sound,
and imagination has unfurled.
Think of what it is to make it written,
to create from raw ingredients,
and perhaps a bit of deviance,
while letting go of false prescience,
one might find herself quite smitten,