Yeah, i read that poem probably while i was in my sec 2 year. It pretty much stuck to me. there was also 'oh captain, my captain', ' the arrow and the song', 'I sing the mighty power of God'...imagine, I passed english because I memorized all these and I understood them deeply on how life was back then and how things sometimes never change.

i'd write my own poems and I'd probably never get it into Hallmark or a greeting card

Love is here

Never far from my heart
Or far from my mind
Neither too far from my ear
I can still hear the words and cries

Doesn't listen all the time
And life's work gets in the way
Maybe a question can bring me closer
Or end up in tears

It's never easy to love
Neither is it easy to solve
But one thing's for sure
It's there and crystal clear.


yeah i'm bad at rhymes. that's why I don't write raps

maybe this

JOY

A little too close for comfort
A little too far for thought
It's never about thinking
It's all about heart

How much do I want it?
how much can i give?
Everyday's a battle
Which i feel i can never win

It's all I think about
The battles and bruises
The weeks and months
The pain and joy

It's a person's path
A warrior's joy
A life that not many creatures take
but worth our toil for life's joy

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

BY Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron band.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan;His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can,And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow,Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school Look in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge, And bear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys;He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice,Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing, Onward through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it closeSomething attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught!Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought;Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.