And Why Should My Lines Rhyme?

Now, life is a deal so raw — And who doesn't know, That the end is near, That the Heir is here? Life is out of order, For thought a fodder. Life is not a rhythm, And why should I create a rhythm? Critics tell me poetry is music, But of these rules I get sick. No more conformity shall I seek, I withdraw after stepping on the peek. Life is too short, With so much to sort. Think of the warnings: The global warming, The unpredictable bombings... The street children are penni...
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