What A Man Wants Is A Mate

Poetry, I Feel, Is A Tyrannical Discipline, You've Got To Go So Far, So Fast, In Such A Small Space That You've Just Got To Turn Away All The Peripherals.

Go Out And Do Something. It Isn’t Your Room That’s A Prison, It’s Yourself.

Talking About My Fears To Others Feeds It.

I Get Into A Rut, Unable To Yank My Mind Out Of It.

The Body Is Amazingly Stubborn When It Comes To Sacrificing Itself To The Annihilating Directions Of The Mind.