The poet in me is dying

The poet in me is dying
Which I find quite disturbing to say
Who needs the crazy old imagist inside of me anyway?

Though these words are rhyming
And the rhyhtms are not well-set (as they always are)
I find myself writing about nothing incredible (instead about topics sub-par)

Such as how I cannot find inspiration
In the most menial of tasks, nor in the flower
Who is swaying gently in the grasses all the day, every hour.

As the trees move in the wind
Their seeds swim in the breeze and shake.
They all eventually fall loose so that they may procreate.

So is the poet in me, swaying in emotion
Tied up, steadfast, in the mind of a rationalist.
Dying desperately to escape and inspiring me to write this.