Rhymes are great, rhymes are fun
Rhymes are fit for anyone
They can be happy, they can be sad
A poem about love, or the death of your dad
Easy to read and easy to write,
They flow through your mind like a cool wind at night
They can be fast
like a blast
from your past
'til at last,
harassed and aghast,
they have passed.
Or let's take a break and slow down for a minute.
They can be spread out and drawn out, it's my rhyme - you're living in it
They don't have to have structure, the rules flex and bend
It can rhyme a little in the middle or it can rhyme at the end
Rhymes are just great for showing creativity
Not fun for you? It's pretty fun for me!
You should give it a try, it's not like you'll die
Write a poem about the sky, or one that makes you cry
Or read some ballads, and maybe you'll see
That they can be serious, yet fun
Like the Cremation of Sam McGee
All this to say,
at the end of the day,
If you hate poems that rhyme, I guess that's not a crime
But maybe, just maybe, I have helped change your mind
You do you
I once met a man who hated rhyme.
He said, "free verse is more sublime!"
I gave him a hug
and replied with a shrug:
"Whatever you like, dude, that's fine."
what is left?
but certainly not anything sane.
brightening your own fight
let it be
no matter how stupid it sounds
it realeases the mounds
it is power
for those who can put words together
can without doubt,
lift much more than a feather
maybe this time you will feel
that comes with rythm
Rhyming poetry is a little restrictive
Of course it can be effective
Depending on your objective
But for me its majorly addictive
Near rhymes barely scrape
by just like my brother in high
school. He'd put that little white tape
over his D in psychology.
It takes a lot of planning, scheming,
Odd becomes our syntax
attempting to make our rhymes exact
But when you're Eminem
and you've made your second million
you'll bow to the power of rhymin'
or at least appreciate the complexities it adds to the work :)
That little dimple is ridiculous.
Absolutely loathsome, when I'm out here preaching the meaning of vitality so vehemently to you and you have the audacity
I see four realities transposed over-under overlays of fifty ways the future might play out, and I articulate as such so succinctly, subverting all circumventions so that we may
Understand the point of partisanship and parting gifts in the guise of white flags on inbound ships, on the horizons of hell helping heal sinners sunk just under the surface.
Thousand fixes flood my mind with every sip of expensive wine and how do we define expense? Is it not subject to intellect and how we choose to count our cents?
I see your smile, you know. Ode to the dimples that chose to grow and to your teeth that shine under fine-dining light and to crow's feet by twinkling eyes that leave me
If I'm drunk, I promise it's not only on the wine.
A humble bumble bee sits on a pedal patiently
and thinks aloud to no one:
"is this what i'm supposed to be?
a wand'ring little fuzzy thing
that goes from place to place,
marking every flower, shoving pollen in my face?"
The buzzing flyer hovers lightly, adjacent to a stem
and sees the thorns just next to him:
"I won't go near them again."
Careful to preserve his fur, he moves 'round them expertly,
oh what a life it is to live, the humble bumble bee.
Together back at homebase, the group begins to gather
the mass exodus is about to start, they're just waiting for the master
as is tradition she enters slow and the drones bow reverently,
she whispers something to her right and the bees begin their buzzing
about to play their part together:
"my God it's so exciting"
Perfect, patient, flower pedals sit waiting for their guests,
presenting pollen so politely, upon their gentle faces.
Enchanted by their own aroma, lazily they sway
in the intermittent meadow breeze that will bring the bees today.
Not so humble now they charge, as the morning sun awakens
a hoard of warriors it seems, will shortly overtake them,
and excitedly the flowers brace for the weight of their subtractors
who will unknowingly progress the lineage of the flowers.
It's over just as quickly as the whole business began,
the flowers emptied, satisfied;
as the bees, treasure in hand
leave the meadow fellows, swaying lighter than before
and the breeze somehow has shifted giving them a lift back home.
The single humble bumble bee now weighted down with pollen
reflects back on his life with gratitude as evening falls and
delights in his life which seems so big, so rich, so full
though little does he know he's only got one week to go.
End of my love story
To someone very close,
I bought a red rose.
With my love dose
He stood there froze.
My emotions' stream
Then ended in a meme.
This, for You (You’re the doll.)
I will flabbergast them all,
climb an alabaster wall,
going ever faster. Fall
to avert disaster! Haul
ass to gain a Master, Doll.