Symbols, yes. Both the characters on the page, and the characters in the story, and even a white whale-- no, that's been done to death. That's been done FOR death. That's done, dun, donut, dallying in the dark alleys of the night.

And, yes, perhaps rhymes, at times, but not in any regular pattern, of course; can't have any method in the madness. Better to have madness in the method, or at least act like it. No divine chime of the sublime here, buster; if you're in that line, take it outside.

And meter? Sure, put a coin in the hat and see where it'll get you.

But that's not really enough, is it?

No, you want blood, sweat, and tears, but not the rock group, and not anything cliche as that. You want the ginger halo of the sun above the brownstones on Delancy Street, and the hint of silver in her raven hair.

You want the cobwebs in the corner, the old, dusty cookbooks crowding the shelf, the dim light of the florescent bulb casting shadows through the broken wicker chair back, and the protagonist fucking the antagonist's brains out on the linoleum floor.

Well, maybe I don't have it in me. Maybe I haven't experienced enough of life. Maybe I'm not ready, or willing, to confront my feelings. Maybe I'm not remotely visual. Maybe I like emotional detachment, ever think of that?

Maybe life is hard enough to deal with in REAL LIFE without having to put it into another damn bit of verse.

Anyway, I still don't have a poem.