The End Poem by roy may

Alas I find it quite perverse, that I can only write in verse, the habit has become a curse
It’s time I though of quitting
I’m very envious of those, who effortlessly turn out prose, that without rhyme just some how flows
Their skill is unremitting.

Even if I take my time, my poems somehow end as rhyme, becomes a literary crime
To all who are discerning
At spelling I will always fail, my grammar too is very frail, therefore I feel I’m bound to fail,
To satisfy my yearning

I should have listened more at school, stopped behaving like a fool, my pen could have become my tool
To fulfil my ambition
To write with style and panache, in literature to cut a dash, instead of which I come down crash
Trembling with contrition

Now it’s time to turn to drink, and put away my pen and ink, give up the quest that makes me think
That I could really write
No more to comment on the news, giving vent to biased views, or writing of the global blues
It’s time I said good night.