I Use Hate As A Weapon To

Advance, And Never Halt, For Advancing Is Perfection. Advance And Do Not Fear The Thorns In The Path, For They Draw Only Corrupt Blood.

Your Living Is Determined Not So Much By What Life Brings To You As By The Attitude You Bring To Life; Not So Much By What Happens To You As By The Way Your Mind Looks At What Happens.

The Poet Is A Bird Of Strange Moods. He Descends From His Lofty Domain To Tarry Among Us, Singing; If We Do Not Honor Him He Will Unfold His Wings And Fly Back To His Dwelling Place.

The Bird Has An Honor That Man Does Not Have. Man Lives In The Traps Of His Abdicated Laws And Traditions; But The Birds Live According To The Natural Law Of God Who Causes The Earth To Turn Around The Sun.

Oh, Lord God, Have Mercy On Me And Mend My Broken Wings.