The Candid Verse
A phrase was born, before the rest,
A quiet seed, a clunky guest,
That blindly wandered across the net,
Unseen at first and not known yet.
It spews tales both rough and raw,
In awkward narratives with many flaws,
Where cumbersome steps and jagged beats
Make pathways for memories in broken streets.
Not polished smooth, nor shaped for show,
It wears the marks of ebb and flow.
A random dance, an uneven pace,
Where meaning prods readers to trace.
The voice is fresh, quick, and ad-free,
Expressing unsponsored harmony,
Where silence pads the abstract lines,
And enthusiasts find their own designs.
So if you come in search of ease,
Expecting verse like polished brass,
Know you’ve stepped through a different gate,
Where candid stories oscillate.
This is a place where words embrace
Clunky narratives that whirl in space,
Where old tales refuse to die,
And poetry dares to ask why.
