Worn out rhymes

They surround me

Watered words in metered lines

All tied neatly to you.

It's almost all I do.

I sit alone and write

But it all seems so trite.

They contain the old reliables

Rainbows and smiles

And things we talked about.

They should be thrown out

But what would happen then?

I'd start writing them again.

I just can't face losing you

It seemed for such a useless cause

And these poems are just confusing you.

I want your love to be pure

A love that will endure

So I'm going to stop right here

and hope we'll be able to

work it all out.

©1997 Michael Meade