Confessions of a Poet

This was written in a rather reflective mood, thinking about poetry. There isn't a story or occasion to act as a reason for this poem. It just came, and I just wrote. Just like that.

Confessions of a Poet (21-8-94)

I know no reason, yet opine
That half my soul is poetry.
The other half, though it is mine,
Remains to date a mystery.

Each morn I wake to one more day;
Each morn I spy new troubles nigh;
Problems pester me through noon,
And with the dying sun they die.

My life I see, as others do,
In much the angle they have spied;
And yet the poet in me shows
All its contents magnified.

This is perhaps the reason why
The little joys I seldom get
Very much do compensate
The troubles that often beset.

Life is dull, yet I can see
Its colours in a brighter way,
And with my poet’s help I can
Smiling close a hectic day.