The Poet: Would Rather Eat A Heart

What Is Madness But Nobility Of Soul At Odds With Circumstance?

What Have I Done, Dear God, To Deserve This Perpetual Feeling That I'm Almost Ready To Begin Something Really New?

The Indignity Of It!- With Everything Blooming Above Me, Lilies, Pale-pink Cyclamen, Roses, Whole Fields Lovely And Inviolate,- Me Down In The Fetor Of Weeds, Crawling On All Fours, Alive, In A Slippery Grave.

I Bleed My Bones, Their Marrow To Bestowupon That God Who Knows What I Would Know.

Time Marks Us While We Are Marking Time.