They come with sharpened pens,
dipped in the ink of insistence,
ready to carve lines into meaning,
to trim excess, to break form
where form should stand unbroken.
Poetry, they say, must kneel
before its rightful masters—
those who dictate rhythm,
who weigh metaphors against tradition,
who scoff at the unschooled,
the unstructured, the uninvited.
No room for wandering thoughts,
no space for jagged breath,
only clean syllables,
approved intentions—
as though verse were currency,
its value set by unseen hands.
The air thickens with scrutiny,
a silence stretched tight,
waiting for the next fracture,
the next stray image to be judged
unworthy.
But still, words find their way—
through gaps, through defiance,
through ink spilled not for approval
but for the sheer, reckless need to speak.