I’ve tried to pen words of despair-studded prose,
Contemplating my worthless existence;
Recounting the loss and the trial and the throes
And the pangs of life’s painful persistence.
I’ve tried to see beauty where others see drear,
And take pains to express it uniquely;
To convolute things that are otherwise clear,
And refer to plain matters obliquely.
I’ve tried putting thoughts on the page in a swarm,
Without heed to strict metre or timing.
I’ve tried not to keep to the rigours of form,
Nor give in to the whimsy of rhyming.
But when I examine the depths of my bile
For pure anguish and unresolved niggle;
I only find joy and bad puns, and I smile -
I can’t help it. The world makes me giggle.
And chronicling splendour with menial words,
Seems unjust when it’s there to be tasted.
By contrast, my scribblings are budget-priced turds,
Representing a few hours wasted.
And though some think rhyming is puerile and twee,
And constrains the expression of ardour,
Any fool can spew thoughts indiscriminately;
I like rhyming because it’s much harder.