Liquid black pours out,
A white plain of deserted memories,
Scattered ideas spilling from thousands.
Unorganized. Messy. Deep.

They are cold and raw.
Cut to the bone and peeled from despair.
Reorganizing. Jumping into new forms and pairs.
Like soldiers-
They are aligning into a perfect army.
The army that shall march,
A perfect rhythm humming,
They are the rules,
Silently strumming,
Baring their fangs in a crude display,
Telling you there is only one way.

March, march, company halt.
These soldiers are driven through explicit how-to's.
They have no say.

I am bound- constricted with these soldiers.
I can't feel my thoughts, my ideas, my desires.

I want revolution. I yearn to rebel.
This is not what I signed up for.
Since I was a small child to my graduation day.

I wish there had never been haikus,
Or just rhymes.
No necessary rules in this written fantasy.

The black ink will dance.
It'll bleed through the rules and lines.
Spoken- it shall own a new rhythm,
Be sung in a new beat.

For what spreads across my white plain,
Is not some beaten rule follower.
It is a rebel- true and relentless.

If a poem is from the heart,
Then why should any rules apply?
Why not, simply, a poetic rebellion?