Poetry with simple rhyme scheme
isn't really poetry at all.
It takes all the artistry of language,
and crushes their greatness
into something rather small.
It belittles the sharp peaks of your smile,
that peek through porcelain veils.
It takes the beauty of your eyes,
and brings them down to scale.
The rhyming ruins all seriousness,
true poets take in pride,
it leaves their work in ridicule,
though their emotions are implied.
It vastly understates
the warmth in your cheeks,
and incredibly discounts
the lions of your dreams,
making them seem weak.
That is why I will never write a poem
describing the perfection of you
in a silly little rhyme scheme;
that is what I shall not do.
I will, however, jest
at what rhyming cannot describe,
although it tries to do its best,
it falls by the wayside,
For limericks cannot contain
my pretentious heart and soul,
and cannot compare
to the magnificence you hold.
Because if I could contain your spirit,
in matters of stanzas and rhyme
my talents would be wasted,
this atrocity a crime,
But you make my writing worthwhile,
and give me ideas to muse,
instead of the dull and dread,
the pretender's butter and bread,
with none of my talents to use.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
Poetry with simple rhyme scheme
isn't really poetry at all.
It takes all the artistry of language,
and crushes their greatness
into something rather small.
It belittles the sharp peaks of your smile,
that peek through porcelain veils.
It takes the beauty of your eyes,
and brings them down to scale.
The rhyming ruins all seriousness,
true poets take in pride,
it leaves their work in ridicule,
though their emotions are implied.
It vastly understates
the warmth in your cheeks,
and incredibly discounts
the lions of your dreams,
making them seem weak.
That is why I will never write a poem
describing the perfection of you
in a silly little rhyme scheme;
that is what I shall not do.
I will, however, jest
at what rhyming cannot describe,
although it tries to do its best,
it falls by the wayside,
For limericks cannot contain
my pretentious heart and soul,
and cannot compare
to the magnificence you hold.
Because if I could contain your spirit,
in matters of stanzas and rhyme
my talents would be wasted,
this atrocity a crime,
But you make my writing worthwhile,
and give me ideas to muse,
instead of the dull and dread,
the pretender's butter and bread,
with none of my talents to use.
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