This Is The Light Of The Mind,

Before I Give My Body, I Must Give My Thoughts, My Mind, My Dreams.

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

And I, Love, Am A Pathological Liar.

Some Pale, Hueless Flicker Of Sensitivity Is In Me. God, Must I Lose It In Cooking Scrambled Eggs For A Man.

Nothing Stinks Like A Pile Of Unpublished Writing, Which Remark I Guess Shows I Still Don't Have A Pure Motive (o It's-such-fun-i-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) About Writing.