Deprivation is
the foundation stone of creativity,
just ask any successful one
many like me alone,
amidst many a dark situation
lurk about
but inclinations
I haven't given to any

the limits of my yields
have yet to sprout,
of that I have no doubt
but to be lonely
just to brood isn't the purpose of life,

we left our parents in the far oceans of life
and stayed on to surf all alone
haven't we

So take not to heart
there is so much still,
time is a blessing

(Also With Title Revised from the original "Sing because you have a song)
(This Edit #3 has punctuation errors corrected, thanks to detailed scrutiny by Wesley)

Fastening my seat belt
whistling a Chinese song,
I'm ready to steer
my second hand car.

Windshield though cracked
will let in fresh air,
bonnet made of steel
wearing red oxide scales.

The tires may have aged
over some bumpy rides,
but the battery is almost new;
will last me many miles.

It's been a while since I talked
with someone who wanted to listen,
told them of all the useless
things I could think of to fill
the time,
those days have long since dogeared
there are vignettes on the edges
of the frame, rust, rat bites,
the colours aren't vivid anymore,
except the smiles,
those will last a while, I think,
before they too are rubbed
off by neglect.

Through timelines immemorial
mankind has written poems,
with wordsmith nigh celestial
he filled nigh endless tomes.

Who wrote the first to poesy shape?
When did he recognize
the panacea’s posed escape
from all he did despise?

His epode came before his prose.
He beat the drums aloud.
Heartfelt the elegist knew throes
of joy and pain enshroud.

‘Longside the painter in the cave
the poet sang his song.
He sang of gods and heroes brave
and what he thought was wrong.