Fed up with poetry

A Poem by Symplydymple

Frantic nonsense is how my poetry rises
Falling inch by inch into expected surprises
Filled with inane rhymes which suffices
Enough to turn speech into an ominous crisis

Every metre my poem stretches
More vanity sweeps into its sketches
The little sweetness my rhyme fetches
Many an error on its lines perches

Counter to what poetry teaches
I jam up my rhyme till it reaches
A height where it breaches
The very rules grammar preaches

Vanity is what my writ endorses
Hailing futility's forces
Speaking much yet nothing deserving applauses
Rolling stones of course do not gather mosses

I even venture to describe kisses
When my own love life is no hit and all misses
Girls continue to shower me with hisses
Yet I venture to describe kisses

I even venture to write about flowers
Which have the endowment of dewy showers
When so lost is my descriptive powers
That my poetry bitters and cowers

I even venture when in one of my poetic trances
To try to describe one beaut as she dances
And throws herself into sprightly prances
Just as any boy would when upon such a feat he chances

Yet when I begin writing my poetic verses
The yearn to rhyme makes room for guesses
What should be lilies then is made to look like cresses
Then mere senselessness is what the poem now stresses

Slowly disappointment like the death of daisies
Which onced filled with cheers the eyes that gazes
Sets in and the eager pen slowly lazes
Till no more can I tell my poem with praises

I shall quit and endeavor other places
Be it biology, psychology or the study of races
There maybe life will afford me enough graces
To enjoy the bliss of its other phases