What do you know about writing a poem?

About looking at lines of words and words in lines,

Sitting at the top of your totem,

deciding whether they meet your standards?

Who says you can grade creativity?

Compare it to others,

And if it’s not what you expect to see,

It’s already considered slander?

Words are free to be used as one please,

They don’t have a certain order.

I don’t make mistakes righteously,

because they’re flawed to you but flawless to me.

“That order is all wrong, that’s in the wrong place”,

Is that so? All right,

How about I shove this poem in your face,

With all of it’s honesty and grace.

I couldn’t care less about your laws,

Set in crumbling stone,

Old and worn, long thawed.

Are you satisfied with your “accomplishments”?

What do you think when you push aspiring writers

to the brink of depression,

because they value your satire,

and your foul oppression.

They hang onto your every silent word,

Judging their writing when you believe your helping.

Stop what you’re doing, haven’t you heard?

No one gives a damn about your “spoken word”.

This poem is not wrong,you’re just not right.

It doesn’t matter that my words are used “incorrectly”,

Or how long this took to write.

This passage is perfect impeccably.  

What am I missing? Oh, yes that’s it,

Try and judge this poem,

And I guarantee you’ll get hit.

Now go on,and tell everyone alive

that in literature, there are no wrongs or rights.