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

I Wonder About All The Roads Not Taken And Am Moved To Quote Frost...but Won't. It Is Sad To Be Able Only To Mouth Other Poets. I Want Someone To Mouth Me.

God, Is This All It Is, The Ricocheting Down The Corridor Of Laughter And Tears? Of Self-worship And Self-loathing? Of Glory And Disgust?

Death May Whiten In Sun Or Out Of It.

Intoxicated With Madness, I'm In Love With My Sadness

Dying Is An Art, Like Everything Else. I Do It Exceptionally Well.