Plaintext Poetry

And look at my words,
lying plain on this page.
No picture. No painting,
no outpouring rage.

Just cliche and fragment
and tedious rhyme
A rhythm gone stagnant
and a restrictive Design.

I could write about flowers,
or greenery trees,
I could ramble repugnant,
or tickle and please.

I could draw you a picture,
with worlds of my making,
drinkmellow, cloud yellow
and tender lifequaking.

But beauty and beast
are in the eye of the beholder,
can a blind person see -
what no-one has told her?

And so I lie staring,
out this open-flat book,
my taker has taken
all that was to be took.

But some are still reading,
their eyes small and greedy,
and I wonder, briefly,
what makes us so freaking needy,

that we ascribe meaning,
to all that we see,
to paintings. to pictures,
and plaintext poetry.