You say “It’s your own,” you say “It’s your own”
“Away from the norms, never conformed, this is how writing is born”
So what’s this that you say about poems?
 
You approach the unknown by line editing your soul
“That rose isn’t red — it’s all been said — you have to reform”
You say “It’s your own,” you say “It’s your own”
 
But this teaching is all preaching outgrown tomes
Clothed in blind traditions like religions of an oath you’ve sworn
So what’s this that you say about poems?
 
Give us readymade quotes so that we may clone
the ashen smoke you exhale on all that won’t conform
You say “It’s your own,” you say “It’s your own”
 
Could you ever be taught, will you never be shone?
Past stillborn authority that says “It’s always better in the form”
So what’s this that you say about poems?
 
An old way withers, your clothes, now unsown
Still I learn with rhythm unturned, so I shall cease to scorn
What you say is your own, you say is your own
Now what’s this that you say about poems?
 
 
I see my life
reflected
in a cup of chai
by the poisoned river
writing poems on my hand.