Why
	Why do words, not work for me.
	They always seem, to work for thee.
	While its true, I, may lack passion,
	still, I want, the words to fashion,
	a picture true, of the way I feel.
	Isn't that, a form of zeal?
	When others start, to pen their works,
	straightaway, I sense what lurks.
	Why then must, what I confide,
	never show, what dwells inside.
                    s[[im   5/03


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