I can only come up with so many rhymes
before my poems become worn, forgotten with time.
So is that all I'll be? Am I in my prime?
Will I one day have no more ideas in mind?
Some would say yes, that we're all assigned
a fate that decides when we shall resign.
But wait, does that mean we are all just confined
to a straight-forward path that we must follow blind?
So what happens to those few who choose to decline
to follow the path, to stick to the bind?
Will they get to explore? Might they get to find
the rhymes that I need to make poems sublime?
How should I ever know if I don't stray from mankind?
Is this still my fate, to leave them behind?
While this new way is unmapped, and it may be unkind,
it seems right to venture with an open mind.
I still do not know if leaving that line,
will help me, or was just a waste of time,
but no matter the outcome, no matter the finds,
at least I can know the decision was mine.
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