i’ll make poetry my bitch!
until then, i’m its,
like an infection that renders you feverish,
or a scratch at the back of your throat you can’t itch,
it’s there ensuring you serve and obey it.
for us in prose prisons, were slaves,
and to it, submit,
at the end of our wits,
at its beck and call,
what to emit, what to omit,
and deliver writ.