An ode to you, to give thanks, I would guess:

For all of the times I turned to your best;

Or when I needed to let myself rest,

And on loose pages, let my brain get wet.

When I had to let the words out my way,

I turned to you for my something to say,

Not afraid to put it out on display,

Though I cannot say the same nowadays…

When I was a child, I loved you more. Why?

I didn't know all the rules to go by!

Rules of your genre, like rhythm and rhyme,

And of course, meter, or marching in time —

Yes, I do know rhyme, you know that as fact,

And your devices, which I rarely lacked;

Now, I count the beats, in each line I tap,

And I stress about stresses, and all that.

I even rethink my forms, rhymed or not…

Should it be in free-verse or a sonnet?

How about meter, or even the count?

I see why my peers don't like you one bit…

Despite all of that, I still enjoy you;

I just need more time to think you all through.

I prefer, on my time, to give you some room:

Let you take over and do what you do.