Poetry of Rhyme

One day I decided a poet would be brave

thus started the works of colour in grey

I glanced up at the clock ‘‘twas end of the day

my heart not content but filled with dismay

for it was broken by whatever  

some nonsense I had written

forlornly rhyming gibberish 

from a soul that had been bitten

A photographer I fancied

would be geographically flourished

so began taking pictures of the undernourished

mr blobby at his best in a white chequered vest

drinking a strong looking beer In an alcoholic mess

ignorantly not realising his heart was bereft

at the end of his nightmare taking a rest

someone said a ‘painter you possibly could be’

I held a brush in my hand and began merrily

painting a shadow, a wall, a house

spreading the paint in shape of a mouse

painting skirting, as grey as my heart

sometimes wishing, I never did start

then a master came along

said ‘a painter you’ll never be’

fruitfully hysterical, at the state of me

So I turned my life around, one last time

continued writing a book longer than a rhyme

I finished the end, the beginning was next

yet the middle was difficult it flustered me vext

I gave up the job with poetry in mind 

I wrote a diddle with a middle, of a boy with a fiddle 

a poem so soulful like a steak on a griddle

a story of life going down in the puddle

a poet I cannot be without rhyme and riddle.