F. G. Denton

Metallic taste of tears, red drops on paper, It’s ripping off my skin to get away, Inside of me it lives, my inner shaper, Poetic exorcism is on the way. Whatever reader thinks, however biased, The monster stays on page in any case. I pet it gently, look it in the iris, Red glowing eyes are leaving smudged ink trace. “We thank you very much for your submission, But what you write is not what we would print.” The space between the lines—presupposition, Where arrogance and hubris casting tint. The monster growls, it wants to break confinement, I calm it down until it stops to fuss. I tell it that for us it’s not assignment, That we’ll be fine if no one knows of us, That we will haunt whoever dares to question, Will always stay in every cell of brain, That monster and creator are possession Of every single poetry domain. My monster’s called an old poetic meter, It’s rigid form and shape intimidate, It growls again, it scares away the reader; Refused to change the mold and imitate. “They just don’t get the music of your lyre,“ I tell the monster, skip one beat of heart. My iambs—not for sale, my soul’s on fire: Burns in appreciation of the art.