It's a rhythm,
Pounding in my brain,
For words to match.
That's the aim.
This poem has rules,
For which I make
The words to follow
Or the rhythm breaks.
Four lines a verse entails.
The rules are clear to me.
Lines second and last
Must have synchrony.
Some call this rhythm poetry,
To most a simple rhyme,
The words are much more to me.
They help improve my mind.
With every verse I write
New words come to me.
The rhythm and good luck
enhance my vocabulary.
Like the pulsing of a drum.
The rhythm has a beat.
The words, they march to that.
With measure and repeat.
Now the poundings stopped.
The words all written down.
I can rest a while
Listening for that sound.
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 8:06 AM UTC
It's a rhythm,
Pounding in my brain,
For words to match.
That's the aim.
This poem has rules,
For which I make
The words to follow
Or the rhythm breaks.
Four lines a verse entails.
The rules are clear to me.
Lines second and last
Must have synchrony.
Some call this rhythm poetry,
To most a simple rhyme,
The words are much more to me.
They help improve my mind.
With every verse I write
New words come to me.
The rhythm and good luck
enhance my vocabulary.
Like the pulsing of a drum.
The rhythm has a beat.
The words, they march to that.
With measure and repeat.
Now the poundings stopped.
The words all written down.
I can rest a while
Listening for that sound.