there is no title.

I do not write
boxed,
ruled,
by old dead men
who stress the unstressed
stress syllable saving
form
over word play. Puns.
And feelings.
Discouraging for the un
refined fresh face
on the scene only in it
for the fun,
Not the masters
of fitting everything
in to bottomless boxes that
contain everything.
Discouraging for the
fans of alliteration
of slant rhymes
of homonyms
of bending grammar
and visual poetry
difficult to fit,
in one-twos and two-
ones; That three feet
are too few and
have won no prizes.
Confined to peer
reviews, no sonnets
plays immortalizations
in summer days.
Confined to a notebook
likely doomed to be lost,
forgotten in a box
or trash can, Confined
to a letter grade, a little
part of a little part.
Enforced rules on this
word, line, page, book,
leaves the book blank.
Never written. I do
not write the rules.
I do not write
boxed.