I wonder what its like
to be a poet free of strife
could you even be a poet
with nothing gnawing at your life

If life was daffodils and butterflies
and you were happy with no doubts
could you turn that into poetry
would you have stuff to write about

I can see if life turned you around
you could write about your past
but what if life was always perfect
a total and utter blast?

Somehow I think you'd manage it
because no matter how great life looks
its not until you've lived their life
you see into every darkened nook

Because what seems so great to all without
is seldom that great inside
the obits are full of perfect lives
cut short by suicide.