(With apologies to Pete Townshend)

This month is over
Excepting one poem, not so easy
Playing so free with verse, not for me  

Writing poetic has yet to free me
Harangues and taunts still haunt me
Voices inside that tell me to ride
Fast and far away  

Will I ever play so free,
like a breath rippling by
Or haunted forever, will I doubt til I die