Going back to rhyme

As i hold back my voice,

And lose what is mine;

Wish for a choice,

And end up resigned,

Wish i could turn back the time,

And go back to rhyme.

When clock shows its thirteen,

And my twelve hours bespent,

The world with its spleen

And its seething resent,

Makes me bitter as a lime.

'O, if i could go back to rhyme.

My feet feel the weight

As my boots drag me down.

I bite back the hate,

And iron out my frown.

I wait for the chime,

When i can go back to rhyme.

Hope and persuasion

Eats up your dreams.

I wish for fascination

But end up in screams.

To flip off the dime

I have to go back to rhyme.

When the air gets too thick

To fill up my lung.

The dust has to lick

The taste off your tongue.

To wipe off the slime,

I go back to rhyme.

As the thoughts that were snow,

Fall down as chalk.

I search high and low

For a key and a lock.

Can't lose what i'm

Must now go back to rhyme.

Once, in those days of innocence of yore, i used to write exclusively in rhyme. And now, i have probably, to put it conveniently, grown out of it. The truer fact is, rhyme is too beautiful a thing to capture the cruel ruggedness of life or whatever jazz. Rhyme is too innocent. Rhyme is perfection. Rhyme is that spotless framed sepia picture of childhood, that smiles at you, capturing the thoughtless joy of the moment and pretending it will last for all time to come. Rhyme is capricious. A piece of nostalgia. And now, you can just look back and smile at it.

This poem is a vain attempt to go back to rhyme. I need not be sorry, or feel pathetic about it. I can just laugh at my vanity to turn back time... Hehehe...