Rhyme

People tell me I’m not a child anymore, that my poetry isn’t supposed to rhyme

You’re supposed to grow with age, and your verse mature with time

But the endless thoughts, all those words always rhyme

I’m in pain.

And it’s in vain, I’ve nothing to gain but I just can’t

Switch off my brain.

And rhyming was once a talent, but now?

I’m ‘insane’ and I can’t stop.

Because to sound profound you need a different end to each sentence

Each word is different, no two have the same cadence, all your lines are fragments

As splintered as your soul, as broken as your heart, each part

Darker than the last and I’m cold. So cold.

And all these words keep crashing through

Each one unannounced, yet invited too

And each thought falls together in an imperfect harmony

A rhythm of my own design that seems to set me free

But I stop. Because I’m not a rapper and I’m not a child anymore, to rhyme

So I stop. And my sentences grow short.

And it takes effort to sound profound, for true wisdom does not rhyme.

And yet the words keep coming.

For it’s never quiet in my head.

And I know not if they will stop even when I’m dead.