Poet, Never Chase The Dream. Laugh Yourself

She Tells Her Love While Half Asleep, In The Dark Hours, With Half-words Whispered Low: As Earth Stirs In Her Winter Sleep And Puts Out Grass And Flowers Despite The Snow, Despite The Falling Snow.

Kill If You Must, But Never Hate: Man Is But Grass And Hate Is Blight, The Sun Will Scorch You Soon Or Late, Die Wholesome Then, Since You Must Fight

Since The Age Of 15 Poetry Has Been My Ruling Passion And I Have Never Intentionally Undertaken Any Task Or Formed Any Relationship That Seemed Inconsistent With Poetic Principles; Which Has Sometimes Won Me The Reputation Of An Eccentric.

Hate Is A Fear, And Fear Is Rot That Cankers Root And Fruit Alike, Fight Cleanly Then, Hate Not, Fear Not, Strike With No Madness When You Strike.

There's A Cool Web Of Language Winds Us In, Retreat From Too Much Joy Or Too Much Fear: We Grow Sea-green At Last And Coldly Die In Brininess And Volubility.