Some of my friends from college have decided to make an attempt at a poetry-writing group, intended more for mutual amusement than any serious pursuit of prosody. This is my attempt to answer a call for nine couplets in iambic tetrameter on the theme of freedom.
Of all the things we do for love,
The best are those we think not of.
We breathe because we love the air.
We can because we never care
To stop and think, “Hey, this is great!
This must be love. It must be fate.”
Unburden love from all such thought,
Unthunken things can’t be forgot.
Each plan and project has its place;
I need no schedule to see your face
And smile. The things we think to do
Are work. Here’s what makes you be you:
The little, never-questioned acts,
The choice that can’t but stay intact.
Do as you please. You can’t betray
Each breathing moment, every day.
And that’s the freedom I love best:
Just love, to hell with all the rest.