Sure The World Breeds Monsters, But Kindness

I Don't Have A Copy Of My Books, And The Degree To Which I Never Read Them Is Profound. I Never Look.

Such A Small, Pure Object A Poem Could Be, Made Of Nothing But Air A Tiny String Of Letters, Maybe Small Enough To Fit In The Palm Of Your Hand. But It Could Blow Everybody's Head Off.

Those Are Only Rumors Of Suffering. Real Suffering Has A Face And A Smell. It Lasts In The Most Intense Form No Matter What You Drape Over It. And It Knows Your Name.

I Tell People Not To Write Too Soon About Their Lives. Writing About Yourself Too Young Is Loaded With Psychological Complexities.

But I'm Not Ready To Stop Listening To The Screwed-up Inner Voice That's Been Ordering Me Around For A Lifetime. My Head Thinks It Can Kill Me... And Go On Living Without Me.