The rhyme pours out of me
Getting a little harder
But I’m enjoying it all the more
Whether or not a big time publisher comes knocking on my door
I don’t think I mind too much right now
Having too much fun
Fully-equipped with my pen for a gun
I know I won’t always get it right
But the moment someone says
They don’t like a poem
I’ll still get a mighty fright
More than I think most probably
But that’s okay
That’s just me
What will be will be
It’s the first time
It’s been all about the words, the rhyme
How well I tell a story
Minus that agonising feeling of trying to get my punctuation just right
So as to feel real glory
As soon as someone told me there were
No rules
I was shocked
Considered them to be a fool
There they sat drinking beer from their bar stool
Setting me up for a fall?
No, doesn’t seem to be the case
Not at all
What happens when my rhyme implodes
Do I give up, get tired
Watch my love for all things literary explode
Leaving me with the dole money catching re-runs of ‘Friends’ on my clapped out telly