Because I am human . . .

Today is one of those days when I shouldn't be writing poetry.
But that's the only thing that helps me forget my pain, so poetry is my last refuge.

I'm no great writer, that I'm not, nor am I much of a reader.
Still my hand itches terribly to write, my heart burns blue.
Everyone likes to think of themselves as hero and poet. By that measure, I too am a poet.

So as I was saying, today is not my day for writing. Today is for crying myself to sleep.
But here I am, writing through my tears.

Why does this happen to people?
What they shouldn't do, they do; what they shouldn't become, they become!

Why must one carry life along this way?
...Simply because one is human?

Look, animals aren't in such a hurry to do anything, to go anywhere!
Then isn't man more enslaved than the beasts?

If I must follow so many disciplines, so many rules, then strike my name from the human roll.
I'm quite content with my identity as a drunken poet.