Slave to Rhyme

Call me old-school

But I’m prisoned in a time

Where it isn’t poetry

If it doesn’t really rhyme.

Like a symphony of words

That abruptly changes melody

It pierces my senses

Can this count as poetry felony?

Subscribing to the old testament

I feel like a legit fighter

A crusader of the dying art

You can call me a strange writer.

With conjugations and gibberish

For weapons of survival

I’ll make it work, no matter what

It’s time for some revival.

Rhyme rhymes with thyme

Who cares what it’s to mean?

A rebel, I live dangerously

Because I’ve found my Billie Jean.

My deep thoughts on paper

Don’t seem quite as profound

What must I do to cure this ailment

To my sing-song rhymes, I’m bound.