A Life Without Rhyme

A story about a man who lost his ability to rhyme.

A life without rhyme

It's just a phase, they say. Just a time for grief. Give it time, and on the flip of a dime, your life will rhyme once more. 

My life has been without rhythm or rhyme for twelve years. Sitting alone at my table I keep getting served tall glasses of pain, fear, and sadness. Drinking away my sorrows, until I can't swallow another drop.

I vomit up my hopes and dreams in the nearest toilet, and try to cope with my reality instead. The fact that I lost my way, that I lost my rhythm. The amount of medication in my veins makes me feel half dead. But I rely on it to get through the day without feeling pain. The medicine numbs my body and brain, making me feel nothing.

As I stumble on home I no longer know which way to go. My purpose in life is as hazy as my vision. I follow a path that is rough, one I'm not able to predict. I fall flat on my face, unable to rhyme with the road of my life. I'm no longer in sync with my future, or even my present.

When I make it home it's cold and dark, and I'm reminded of how alone I am. That no one would ever love me. I remember hope in my youth, in a world much brighter. A world where I had rhythm and rhyme. 

I make my way upstairs to my room, trying not to wake my parents, who's petty effort to hope for a change in what's left of my life is lost on me. I know that I dug my own grave, but the mental illness and bad luck didn't kill me. It left me here in a hole I hopelessly try to claw myself out of.

I'll keep fighting through my defeat all my life, until I can rhyme again. Until I learn how to dance with words once more. In my sleep I dream of sharing new poems rhyme, new poems that people will enjoy, enough that I can make a job out of it. I know it's a ploy to give me false hope, but I don't want the dream to stop. I want life to be beautiful again.

When I wake up in the morning, I'm reminded of my poor choices, and I hear voices saying "you can do better." I'm crying now and I have a splitting headache. I know the voice is right, so I take out an old note pad that I hadn't touched in years, and write my first rhyme in years.

"I think it's clear, I drink way to much beer."

Author's Note

I very seldom reply to reviews, but I promise I read EVERY single one. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be ecstatic to have the chance to hear what you have to say. Whenever you write something about my poems, or the themes of my poems, or criticize me it is not in vain. I will listen, learn and be thankful.