I’m holding on for dear life.
Passing seasons have changed me
Causing me to flutter about in the wind.

My spring colors once ran bold and true,
But that, my love, was before I met you,
You, the Winter of my life.

Cold, cold, you.

Poems don’t have to rhyme, free verse it isn’t a crime
I can write what I please—don’t call the police.
Must I play the game, both rhyme and spill intimate things?
Can I develop leitmotifs without rhyming riffs?
I could claim I’m writing prose - yeah, be one of those.
No one can rhyme all the time.
I can refuse—I’m no Dr F-ing Seuss,
**** it! ← See? THAT didn’t rhyme.
(sirens in the distance)
.
.
Fun songs for this:
Ain't It Fun by Paramore
It's All Your Fault (with Katie Shore) by Asleep At The Wheel

A host of disappointed optimists
Crestfallen once again
The odds were stacked against them
But they remembered when
A Ronnie Radford or Micky Thomas
Could explode a tiny ground
the roof would come off the place
An exhilarating sound
But as it drained down to ninety minutes
With chances growing thin
A thousand tin foil FA Cups
Are going in the bin.

Earth comes out of its greenroom

I bend at the window
looking through the glass
down upon its vastness

something out there is wrong

the future's not what it used to be
a shadow tells me

I feel mysterious today
a stranger to myself
I don't recognize my voice

objects outlive us
but we are more than an accident of stars
someday we will be infinite
breaking into the distance

by serene velocity
by delicate transitions

bringing us closer
to a renewed interest in happiness