My own

When a rhyme is repeating, I scorn and berate me for cheating
Or for tenderly nursing a child that's sufficiently grown.
Words grow bolder, they blunder, or mockingly tear asunder,
And the lines that I want to surpass are forever my own.

When a day is repeating, I shrug, wish it luck with the Reaper.
I am jaded, and tired, and slowly becoming a stone.
You have nothing to offer, except for an intricate coffin,
And mistakes that I'll never surpass are remaining my own.