Why not be a poet?

Why not be a poet?
Who has felt the burning rush
of love and hatred and sorrow?
The drop of your gut
at the honest cold cut words
or the flight of your heart
comes with kisses.
Does he not know
the pain of a beaten child
or the glory of
a military victor home from the Battle Grounds?
When does the snow falls slowly. or a period and: break come in the wrong places?!
I can make my own rules, i am in my world now.
So who hath felt the burning rush?
Who shall it be but the poet?