You wonder why i never weep <br />with my head bowed so deep <br />wishing i would, my sorrows keep <br />but listen, trouble makes life not cheap <br />so that we, all in our grave can leap <br />when our epitaphs, with honor they heap <br /> <br />So all i do is write and also shine <br />the pen makes me feel great and fine <br />even when winds of life blow me like pine <br />Let it be my creator who draws the line <br />when death, on my flesh to dine <br />my lyrics with my works i wish to align <br /> <br />that is why i call my self the poet <br />life to me speaks so fluent <br />i hear fate, i see reality... all that is meant <br />'feeling' in me is so impotent <br />i don't weep for those i shouldn't <br />and i don't create what God didn't<br /><br />Timothy muggaga<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poet-105/
