Requiem Of A Rhyme

I don’t write rhymes.

They’re nickels and dimes.

I’m here for the dirty dollars —

No soft porn, no clean collars.

Your couplets? They're cute.

Cute’s a safe word for the fucking mute

in a world that needs screaming,

not episodes of audacious daydreaming.

You rhyme like training wheels —

prettied-up, processed meals.

Meanwhile, I cook in blood and bile,

write my truths with a butcher’s smile.

If poetry were for the faint-hearted,

it would’ve been buried before life even started.

And just like that, I wrote a sonnet.

While you walked into it like mock bait.

Every line I drop, you cling to hope —

waiting for my slip, like wet feet on soap.

But I don’t slip.

I land. I grip.

Like fists, like grief,

like truths you tongue in your sleep.

That’s the funny thing about ignorance —

it suffocated brain cells on a barbed wire fence.

And here we are — far beyond a fucking sonnet.

You’re still gasping, wondering how I am still on it.

Truth is, I could spit this all night, all day —

but who stays when the truths betray?

Let’s cut the crap and speed the chase:

your rhymes are fodder for cows to graze.

You rhyme because you can’t break a thought.

You rhyme because you’ve never really fought.

You need rhymes like the lame need crutches.

Your verses? So “delicate” no one touches.

I’d rather crash than crawl through your page —

I’d rather die than dilute this necessary rage.

If I were crippled, I’d rather choose the fall

over writing rhymes with no spine, no ball.

The next time you fart out your nursery rhymes,

Call me — I’ll cough up some nickels and dimes.