Search for topics, deep and vast,
Something tragic, mildly cursed.
Scroll through trauma, lovers past,
Pick the one that hurts the worst.
Start by thinking of a rhyme,
And be prepared to bleed for art.
Two lines in, you’re 'bout to whine,
Nothing rhymes with "vile ****
Try again, the pen feels grand,
But "love" won’t rhyme with "hanging tree."
Could "dove" or "shove" yet take a stand?
No! Welcome, first catastrophe.
Existential dread sets in,
"What am I doing?" echoes loud.
Pace the room, caress your chin,
Feel the void - and make it proud.
Frantic now, the hunt’s begun,
Scraping rhyme from corpse and tome,
HA! "Fun" fits "none" - the battle’s won,
Now your mind can freely roam.
But next verse, doomed by rhyme again,
Futile scribbles stain the night.
Brain cells dropping, one by ten,
Art and madness reunite.
Second crisis. Question all:
Insanity - the cost of art.
"Why rhyme at all? Why write? Why fall?"
Because endings crave a start!
Next verse, fresh delusions bloom,
Sure, this one will change your fate.
Three lines in, familiar doom:
Nothing rhymes with "craving hate."
Third crisis comes, so nice and raw,
"Why are my poems always odd?"
Contemplate some cosmic flaw,
Blame it on some absent god.
Search once more. Despair’s a trend.
There's no rhyme for "angst" or "doom."
Maybe that's how muses end:
By dying in a poet’s room.
The last verse starts with manic cheer,
"Now I’ve cracked the code at last!"
Then the rhymes just disappear,
All your genius drains out fast.
Fourth crisis, full warning sign:
Brain says, "Stop or you’ll combust."
Put the pen down, pretend you're fine,
And let the words gather some dust.
Take a break and close your eyes,
Let the clock do all the work.
Sip some wine, romanticize
Every half-abandoned quirk.
Fight a squirrel, eat some cheese,
Or whatever brings you joy,
Sing a song, or paint some geese,
Or watch the show "Siegfried and Roy."
Sleep at last, let silence grow,
Wake to words that feel less tight.
Rhymes won’t come by push and tow,
They walk in when you stop the fight.
Nov 27, 2025
Nov 27, 2025 at 5:43 PM UTC
Search for topics, deep and vast,
Something tragic, mildly cursed.
Scroll through trauma, lovers past,
Pick the one that hurts the worst.
Start by thinking of a rhyme,
And be prepared to bleed for art.
Two lines in, you’re 'bout to whine,
Nothing rhymes with "vile ****
Try again, the pen feels grand,
But "love" won’t rhyme with "hanging tree."
Could "dove" or "shove" yet take a stand?
No! Welcome, first catastrophe.
Existential dread sets in,
"What am I doing?" echoes loud.
Pace the room, caress your chin,
Feel the void - and make it proud.
Frantic now, the hunt’s begun,
Scraping rhyme from corpse and tome,
HA! "Fun" fits "none" - the battle’s won,
Now your mind can freely roam.
But next verse, doomed by rhyme again,
Futile scribbles stain the night.
Brain cells dropping, one by ten,
Art and madness reunite.
Second crisis. Question all:
Insanity - the cost of art.
"Why rhyme at all? Why write? Why fall?"
Because endings crave a start!
Next verse, fresh delusions bloom,
Sure, this one will change your fate.
Three lines in, familiar doom:
Nothing rhymes with "craving hate."
Third crisis comes, so nice and raw,
"Why are my poems always odd?"
Contemplate some cosmic flaw,
Blame it on some absent god.
Search once more. Despair’s a trend.
There's no rhyme for "angst" or "doom."
Maybe that's how muses end:
By dying in a poet’s room.
The last verse starts with manic cheer,
"Now I’ve cracked the code at last!"
Then the rhymes just disappear,
All your genius drains out fast.
Fourth crisis, full warning sign:
Brain says, "Stop or you’ll combust."
Put the pen down, pretend you're fine,
And let the words gather some dust.
Take a break and close your eyes,
Let the clock do all the work.
Sip some wine, romanticize
Every half-abandoned quirk.
Fight a squirrel, eat some cheese,
Or whatever brings you joy,
Sing a song, or paint some geese,
Or watch the show "Siegfried and Roy."
Sleep at last, let silence grow,
Wake to words that feel less tight.
Rhymes won’t come by push and tow,
They walk in when you stop the fight.
I penned this gem in thirty minutes, mid-meltdown over another poem where the rhymes ghosted me like my last date, leaving me stranded in syllable hell.
Twenty-plus years slinging verse, and even though Rhymezone's existing, you can't force a rhyme! That's like playing chess with the pigeon - no matter how much you try, in the end it just ***** all over the board, leaving everything a mess.
Filler words work in a pinch, sure, but the real magic hits when lines slither out unbidden. And this is the best way for that:
Use your emotions.
You're ****** Write your hate poem with your victim's blood. All lovey-dovey? Yes, go ahead and write about Sean, the human equivalent of an iPhone 3, while doodling hearts next to the words. You're sad? Let the ink mix with your tears.
Don't force it.
The words will come.
Or maybe they won't. Who knows?
Fascinatingly futile, this poetic roulette.