Trapeze Artist.

How long had it been,

I just cannot say.

Coz the day I had arrived,

Looked a look like today.

The years rolled by,

And the seasons changed.

But everything inside me,

Still seems the same.

How can I say,

What happened in my life.

When I don't even know,

Why I'm still alive.

The days have all gone,

As the sun rose and set.

And someday I will die,

Without a drop of regret.

Everyone wants to ask,

Why am I here?

What is in my life,

And what do I fear?

I know not what to say,

For I don't know myself.

But I tell them the answers,

Are the same as yourself.

Why is it then?

That life comes around.

When all that I had lost,

Was someday found.

What do you say?

When you seek no answers.

You tell who ask the questions,

Why do they wonder?

Why do they care,

What I have to say?

How does it matter,

To them anyway?

Why do they wonder,

Under which sky I lie?

Does it even matter,

Wether I live or die.

P.S.> I've been on a roll. I don't know why, I don't know how, I don't even know if all that I wrote in these 2 days of March, is even worth anything. All I know is, I've felt this urge to write and for some reason I'm thinking too much. I just felt the need to put it in words and tried to make them as songs, but they are not. 

These last few works are poems, no matter how much I try to deny it or change it. People will scoff, ridicule, point and amuse themselves. Or maybe they will wonder for a deeper meaning. If you are a part of the wonderers, then please, just regard these as nothing more than a youth's ramblings put into rhyming prose. 

"I'm not a poet. I hate the term. I consider myself to be a trapeze artist, swinging from words to phrases and thoughts to ideas. I carefully balance the words and attempt to keep the reader's eyes on me throughout my act of a few verse. Maybe some lose sight and some find it boring, I find it a way to express myself to those around me." -- Bob Dylan.