Pressed against the floor
under volumes of books
written in the language of the dead
in tombs of the unimaginable,
the slaves of the prosaic,
in the shadows of the common man,
of mainstream flowing into the mind
and taking up residence in the soul
and deadening the spirit
and placing shackles around the heart,
poets let themselves become exploited
through the monetary value of art,
the redundancy of a new idea,
the new trend to follow and watch it die
with the tendency to die with it.
They become a mainstream advocate
And live by their laws.
Renegade licenses are
for the discontented,
for poets who
prescribe themselves a remedy
to break out of the mold
and cure their lethargy,
the ailment that
deadens the imagination.
They are the brave
who defy the rules of mainstream.
All hail to the renegade poet who
got his license to fly with the wind.