The Jabberwock

Why does it feel like a crime
To write a poem that doesn’t rhyme?
I’ve begun about fifty-thousand drafts
And each one of them ends with disobedient laughs
I suppose it’s a way for me to
Fall back.

Where’s my self control?
I guess I left it with my ambitious goals
Naive like flower scented prose
And the lyrics that linger late at night
When my eyes close and the universe
Is out of sight

I’m addicted to the rhyme
I can’t help using it in almost every line
Call it a crutch, a lack of creation, a waste of time
But I can’t help the drumming in my mind

Can’t leave it to contingencies
Extend to me your sympathies
I won’t get far in the literary industries
With every line I lower my probabilities but I
Can’t stop the soliloquies
Is that a deficit to my abilities?