I once thought I’d be different

And write a poem that didn’t rhyme

It's much harder than I thought

I failed, time after time

 

You know the poems that I mean

Random lines and free flow text

Never knowing what direction

The writer takes you next

 

These creative types just rattle it off

But my brain's not that way inclined

I'd like to be less restrictive

But I need those rhyming lines

 

For me it’s like closing your eyes

And trying to thread a needle

As you ride a unicycle

Uphill and through treacle

 

I grabbed my pen and paper

Sat down in my chair

Looked around for inspiration

Alas, it wasn’t there

 

I waited for a moment

Then like the proverbial bus

The words just tumbled out

In an almighty rush

 

I read aloud my poem

The pressure was immense

Was it a work or art

No, it didn’t make sense

 

There was no rhyme nor reason

No great masterplan

Just a collection of sorry words

in lines that didn’t scan

 

My poem had breathed it’s last

It lay there quite prostrate

Never provoking thought

The waste bin was it’s fate

 

The collection of words

Defined by a chalk outline

English language murdered

Like a literary hate crime

 

The word police paid a visit

And even they did wince

At such a heinous crime

So they took my fingerprints

 

They made me promise under oath

That all my work should rhyme

And if it didn’t they’d lock me up

Behind bars, doing time.