A Choice.

One poem one day, a poet could only pray. Follow their paths and be undaunted. but if I do my head may be haunted. Dreams always linger, i confuse myself without lifting a finger. They only ask for me to rejoice, be happy or retire them truly a choice. My happiness is poetry, but having them work is misery. Cannot make up my thought. poetry is all that I've sought. Used to have no goal, it was really taking a toll. But poetry has made me a dreamer, it indeed has made me gleamer.