In a tiny box they make my mind sit

No freedom to think for myself,
Like an abandoned toy, I lie on the shelf

With pen in hand, writing frozen, my muse

Belongs to another, one who says they will

Set me free.  Follow the rules, things will

Be alright; just be patient you’ll see.

Perhaps this is so; perhaps it is not, my words

have always come from the heart.  But you

Tell me I must have structure and discipline,

think with my head things to be said.  

Do I want to be a writer or not?  A question

That needn’t be asked.  But I can’t write

With my head in the sand, or stay between

The confining lines. 

I must be let out of this place, so dark and

Stale.  I need to break the chains and just let go.

For what is a writer, whose muse has been stilled,

And the creative juices no longer flow.