I’m not the type of guy

Who makes poems that rhy

Me. There is not rhythm

No hop to my walk.

Spare the [conversation]

Of cliche sayings.


There’s that type

Of rhyme that’s

A bit shady.

Like that guy

That you see in

The alley

Who talks to himself.


Who approaches you

With a solemn face

And yellowed teeth

To show what’s inside

His brown bag.


A ragged animal

Who once ran

From the face of a [male human]

But will still attempt to act tough

And [not smooth]

But only a coward stands.


Then again

If that guy was real

We’d all be scared

Hiding our surreal

Sacred

Secrets

In a rhyme

That doesn’t make much sense.