Sometimes I write poetry.

I work my days for you, 'cause I love you. Boy, I don't want you, I need you. I can't see no other way. 

It's what you spit out and not what you mean,
And it's what you see, not what's meant to be seen,
The people you touch, not the ones that you don't,
The looks that you give, sometimes the ones that you won't.
It's the sun overhead, and the grass underneath,
That moves like wild fire beneath your bare feet,
It's the stars when they shine, not the darkness you feel,
The music of traffic, and the embraces you steal.
It's your bed in the dawn, in the arms of a man,
The way you keep going, when it's more than you can stand.
It's the breeze and the leaves when they turn green to red,
How the snow falls to the earth, when the leaves are all dead.
It's the way life is uncertain, and not when you're sure,
And the places you'll go, not the debt you'll incur.
It's the times that you waver, and the times you stay strong, 
It's the times that you're right, and even times that you're wrong. 
It's the silence that rings in the dead of the night, 
The blood in your ears that lets you know you're alright.
It's a whisper, a word, or a beckoning call, 
Or a song, saving grace, in the heat of it all.
A million reasons to smile, a million reasons to not,
But this one beautiful life is all that you've got.