I’m not a poet, I’ll confess

My metre’s always such a mess

I often can succeed with rhyme,

But even that’s not all the time

For we don’t all speak quite the same –

What rhymes for me, for you is lame

.

But metre’s my Achilles heel ...

My cadence makes you want to squeal

It’s awkward, gauche, not good at all

I fear it drives you up the wall!

It’s all about that thing called stress

I know I’ll never have success!

.

I’m just not skilled enough, I guess,

To think of ways to best express

And write my thoughts in words sublime

For now I’m really past my prime

I’m old and weary, that’s the truth

The years have flown past since my youth

.

I wonder if I can retrain

The rusty blob that is my brain?

Bizarre techniques with names so strange –

I long to learn, but can I change?

My only wish? To try my best,

And hope you’ll overlook the rest.

.

Yes, poems cause me such distress

My time for them is now much less.