What's Wrong With Me

You must not have missed seeing the sun any day, How he attains his zenith in the same old way. Yes, he dies by the end of the day, But returns with equal spirit the very next day. Moon is appealing to eyes of all, Vanishes to nothing from the shape of a ball. Grows again from nothing at all, Saying me, “Rise up after every fall.” Let’s look on earth here around, Consider the little seed – either oval or round. Works real hard from the day it’s found, Saying me, “Way to reach the sky starts on the ground.” What’s wrong with me, How they rise again, can’t I see? Be they the sun, the moon or even the tree, Each says, “Good things don’t come for free.”