Poems aren't postcards to send home.
I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.