Who killed The Rhyme?

He was new to the city and in search of a job. He was tall and lanky and had a week's growth of stubble on his chin. His sunken eyes spoke volumes about his hardships and his ready smile,  if melancholy, suggested pain as a constant companion.The workings of his creative heart, which made him appear restless and aloof gave him an added aura of mystique.People who saw him could see him possessed with ideas beyond his day and principles beyond his age - they radiated off his old but clean kurtas and gave him that presence - solid but stick-like, proud but impoverished.
He was, in the way of his looks, perfect for the job of an upcoming poet.
The problem was, No one was quite ready for his poems.

They spoke of a pain deeply embedded in all of us; the pain of failing to get what we yearn; the pain of falling short of our own expectations; the pain of a god who has forsaken us or a love which has been lost; The pain of separation and the pain of an eternity of forced company; His poems stripped his listeners of any pretence and laid bare their souls for them to look and grimace at; and sometimes cry upon.
Circumstance and conspiracy, those two bullies which serve Time were wielded like weapons by his words, moulded by the cutting edge of his rhyming wit. His poems took your breath away, shamelessly and without a disguise to their hurtful nature.His poems were true.

Everywhere he went with an example of his art, he was shunted aside and excused. Boards of indignant people met and discussed and failed to figure out the source of pain in his poems and the nature of words that so disturbed them.Producers had no use for his ballads of woe in their movies, albums could not be sold on grief alone, Girls could not dance to heady music set to his biting phrases, boys couldnt court girls with such pain; not in this age.He was born with the intuition for heart-wrenching wordplay, a century too late into a fast-world of pleasures, yet he looked ahead into a world of happiness, born out of self-realisation, for the pain in his poems was cleansing and inward-looking, the feeling that those boards and producers and script writers couldn't understand; that which caused them so much anguish and left them with no explanation.

He needed one person to understand him, just one to employ him and after some years and a few more kilos lost, he got them.
One who employed him, and the other who married him.
He now teaches english at the local school, where his daughter studies too.
He is fond of watching football and takes his family on yearly holidays to small hillstations.
He owns a scooter and a mobile phone and takes tuitions three days a week.
Needless to say, he is not a poet anymore.
He is happy and content and happy and contented men don't make good poets.
So i wonder who got to him.. the people who didn't understand him, or those who did; for the former didn't pay him and let him be himself and the latter gave him money,security,happiness and whatnot and he lost himself instead.