Why I Write in Rhyme

Why I Write in Rhyme

I started ticking, when I was aged ten;

And sympathy wasn’t much shown back then;

From neither teachers, nor pupils in school;

Who, consequently, were often quite cruel;

Especially the bullies; and as such;

I, who was more naturally a soft-touch,

Had to be someone I wasn’t, each day,

In order to keep the tough kids at bay.

My parents both were naturally, concerned;

Perplexed, as to why I’d suddenly turned

Abnormal. Mum, near the point of despair,

Took me to a hospital in Romford, where

A doctor, upon examining me,

Established I was in physically

“Tick” condition, but should symptoms persist,

He suggested I see a psychiatrist;

The mention of which, filled me with premonitions

Of straight-jackets and asylum admissions:

One must remember: the 1970’s

Was a time when mental-illness remedies,

Were very much in keeping with “One Flew

Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”; the common view

Of psychiatry was positive, nigh never;

And I inwardly vowed to do whatever

It took to avoid it: but what could I do?

At twelve years old, I’d been ticking for two

Years, and for all the torment, it had become

A part of me; like a finger or thumb;

It was as if I not only couldn’t

Stop; I didn’t want to, and hence wouldn’t!

But somehow, I had to rein the tics in,

Or else I’d be sent to the “Loony bin”.

One fateful day, I, having randomly

Embarked on a mindless scrawl, suddenly

Found myself writing everything in rhyme;

And later, it occurred to me: at no time,

Whilst I was writing, or considering what

To write; always with rhyming in mind; not

Once did I feel the urge to tic! Thus, by chance,

I’d found a tic other than Vitus’s dance;

And it wasn’t long before I could talk

Without barking uncontrollably; and walk

Without dancing spasmodically, merely

By thinking in rhyme. Those closest to me

Marvelled upon the change; and best of all:

Mum never gave the psychiatrist a call;

And the bulk of the bully-boys, let me be;

Thanks to the ticking rhymes they couldn’t see.

Now, fifty odd years later, and ticking still;

I’m often these days on a poetry bill;

And, though I’m not really much of a poet;

If my rhyming tics entertain; so be it!

Poet or not, I’m very much content;

And if the tics aren’t exactly God-sent;

In light of my thinking and writing in verse;

I figure them more of a blessing than curse.