Figuring The Average Poet Starts At 16,

Terror Finally Becomes Almost Bearable But Never Quite Terror Creeps Like A Cat Crawls Like A Cat Across My Mind

Each Man's Hell Is In A Different Place: Mine Is Just Up And Behind My Ruined Face.

I Got Up And Walked Back To My Roominghouse. The Moonlight Was Bright. My Footsteps Echoed In The Empty Street And It Sounded As If Somebody Was Following Me, I Looked Around. I Was Mistaken. I Was Quite Alone.

I Broke That Town In Half Like A Wooden Match.

I Have Gotten So Used To Melancholia That I Greet It Like An Old Friend.