I wish that I could write a poem
About the hardship of my days
About the daily trials and struggles,
How all that saved me was God's praise.
But see, I never knew life's struggle,
I've grown up with a silver spoon,
My days have been just easy living,
Where life would grant my every boon.
I wish that I could write a poem
Of daily life at which I look,
Of people whom I talk with daily,
But I live buried in a book.
I sit within my dull home-study,
And learning, working, reading verse,
And when, by chance, I talk with people,
It is to speak and not converse.
I wish that I could write a poem
Of anything that holds some worth,
But nothing of poetic merit
Has happened to me since my birth.
And thus, you see, these lines are wasted
For want of anything to say.
For want of fiery inspiration
A poem has been thrown away.
