Me and my rhymes

I wish I could write some lines without a rhyme.

You see lines are priceless but rhymes are my heinous crime.

At least I am not a mime.

It’s sad I write so much but don’t earn a dime.

I still remember those sad afternoons;

Countless ebony nights and full moons,

I would sit near a window to write some sad verses.

Some envious curses,

I wrote my first rhyme when I was fourteen.

It was like an epiphany, I felt like a queen.

What does this mean?

Am I poet now?

Should I say a Vow?

Or just some amateur with a pen and feelings,

Some cliché infested young girl in need of heeling,

Or is this going to be my life?

Constantly balanced on a double edged knife,

Full of sorrow,

Filled with the anxiety of tomorrow,

I still cannot abandon my rhymes.

I shamefully confess my crimes.

Blame it on a lack of talent.

Or on the fact that I constantly lament,

Or should i blame my amateur mind,

Mind that hides behind the veil made of a thousand insecurities.

Mind that is oblivious to all the penalties,

Obsessed with metaphors drowned in the alcohol of ignorance,

With the shred of benevolence,

It’s a shame I cannot survive without my rhymes.

It a shame I have learnt to kill my conscience and bury my crimes.

Now they play hide and seek with my mind.

Leaving me so blind,

I still cannot write without a rhyme.

I still cannot earn a dime.

Yes I am mime I am no good; no better than a silly wanderer.

I spit random words.

They look like a misguided herd.

Constantly remembering and regurgitating on paper what I learned in my poetry classes,

If you think this is talent you need some glasses.

At the end of the day,

Your words fade away.

All I have is my peculiar mind,

Some silly rhymes,

A veil to hide behind,

My soul which is cruel and kind,

And last but not the least a plethora of crimes.