See, perfect example. The above has all the earmarks (or hallmarks?) of a "modern poem."
* mostly prose
* novelty line breaks
* subtle if any rhyme
This gives your verse an incredible amount of loose, groovy freedom - but WARNING! It does NOT make poetry writing EASIER! If anything, the lack of a safety net, the lack of even a force of gravity to pull you down, keep you grounded, be able to tell up versus down even - the lack of all that restraint and equipment basically frees you to FAIL, if you're not careful. Most modern poetry is a perfect example. Mine, just right up above us there - well, admittedly, less so. Far short of a perfect example of that sort of thing.
That's the risk you take. Free verse is for REALS, yo.
I just wanted to point that out, because sometimes people are like "This museum piece looks like my special needs kindergartener's imaginary BLIND FRIND took a SHIT on a NAPKIN and slapped it up on the refridgerator like the proverbial asshole sittin' in Pie Corner with plumbs on his thumbs." That's pretty much a cliché, in the red-blooded just-us-folks world of art critique, in these days, ever since they finally gave up on the sort of progress that had been captivating snoots for a while by then. You look at some free-form MASTERPIECE and go "SHIT! I could do that without even WANTING to." But it's just as important to note - the same thing applies in poetry! It's just poetry never had a chance to get bastardized by the Modernist Hijack so bad, because poetry wasn't in competition with photography the same way painting was. Fine arts painting basically felt itself threatened, grew desperate, freaked out like a SPAZZ into a corner and DIED there, trying to find even one decent plump remnant wedged into a beveled aluminum crease of a by-then-long-since way-too-picked-over PIE PLATE.
And let me tell you. There is nothing inspirational about the wafting aroma of the curdles and scrapes and streaks of remains of purple-pulped pie juice that looks and smells like it has been sitting out in a room-temperature room since the beginnings of the ends of days. Bacteria, mold - you name it. And yeast trying trying to eat what's left of the sugar, but there's not even enough moisture left in it for poor little mister yeast to shit out a proper alcohol molecule as a by-product! Art, basically, became spoiled and so I just wanted to make sure you're aware of the pitfalls - the same thing hasn't QUITE happened to poetry yet, so be careful, but have fun. Just make sure you're not the one to fuck up poetry for EVERYONE TO COME GENERATIONS AFTER.
There's no Nobel Prize for that.