Whatever's merely willful, and not miraculous (be never it so skilful) must wither fail and cease - but better than to grow beauty knows no.

So far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was, is, and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality.

I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air Alive with closed eyes to dash against darkness

worms are the words but joy's the voice

The snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches.

my mind is a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and chipping with sharp fatal tools in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of chrome and ex -ecute strides of cobalt nevertheless i feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am becoming something a little different, in fact myself hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet bellowings

The hardest fight a man has to fight is to live in a world where every single day someone is trying to make you someone you do not want to be--