How many years can some people exist before they're allowed to be free.

When you cease to exist, then who will you blame?

I don't know if I call myself a poet or not. I would like to, but I'm not really qualified to make that decision, because I come in on such a back door, that I don't know what a Robert Frost or a [John] Keats or a T.S. Eliot would really think of my stuff.

There are things I could say. But I don't.

Hold it, Doc, a world war passed through my brain. He said, Nurse, get your pad, this boy's insane.

There's beauty in the silver singing river There's beauty in the sunrise in the sky But none of these and nothing else can match the beauty That I remember in my true love's eyes

Too much of nothing, it just makes a fellow mean.