Perhaps, Perhaps This Would Be The One

I Suppose I'll Always Be Over-vulnerable, Slightly Paranoid.

I Wanted To Crawl In Between Those Black Lines Of Print, The Way You Crawl Through A Fence, And Go To Sleep Under That Beautiful Big Green Fig-tree.

Love Is A Shadow. How You Lie And Cry After It

I've Got To Have Something. I Want To Stop It All, The Whole Monumental Grotesque Joke, Before It's Too Late. But Writing Poems And Letters Doesn't Seem To Do Much Good.

I Smile, Now, Thinking: We All Like To Think We Are Important Enough To Need Psychiatrists