People say writing poems is meant to be about rhyme and rhythm,
But how do I do that if I can’t stay in time with my own life decisions?

I feel as though I need myself a muse,
I think I have it, my own, personal blues.

See, I can’t help feeling down from time to time.
Since when is loving someone a monumental crime?

Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,
I think you’ll always be my favourite thing.