I Want To Force Myself Again And

You Ask Me Why I Spend My Life Writing? Do I Find Entertainment? Is It Worthwhile? Above All, Does It Pay? If Not, Then, Is There A Reason?... I Write Only Because There Is A Voice Within Me. That Will Not Be Still.

The Tulips Are Too Red...they Hurt Me.

The Thought That I Might Kill Myself Formed In My Mind Coolly As A Tree Or A Flower.

Poetry, I Feel, Is A Tyrannical Discipline. You've Got To Go So Far, So Fast, In Such A Small Space, That You've Got To Burn Away All The Peripherals.

I Must Not Be Selfless: Develop A Sense Of Self. A Solidness That Can't Be Attacked.