Well, write poetry, for God's sake, it's the only thing that matters.

Spring is like a perhaps hand

The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.

And still the mad magnificent herald Spring assembles beauty from forgetfulness with the wild trump of April:witchery of sound and odour drives the wingless thing man forth in the bright air.

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

Whenever you think or you believe or you know, you're a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself.

You have played, (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break, and— Just tired. So am I.