Reckless

I write poetry and prose,
to me the mind is no rose.
A cage, full of refuse,
not some mangy thorn.
The consistent beating,
No wonder I scorn.

In tears I see power,
In brawn I see no brain.
To me happiness is pain.

There is something wrong with being cheery.
It makes a man all leery.
I still can’t stand a frowning man,
to much emotion in his gaze.

For me the path is solemn bleakness.
I learn as I go, making no signs what-so-ever.
I like having no one know.

((E.A. Poe made his life off of rhyming poems, why can't I?))