Nothing is quite honest that is not commercial, but not everything commercial is honest.

I turned to speak to God About the world's despair But to make bad matters worse I found God wasn't there.

The only way out is to go through

A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being.

The chance is the remotest, Of its going much longer unnoticed, That I'm not keeping pace With the headlong human race

Fireflies in the Garden By Robert Frost 1874–1963 Here come real stars to fill the upper skies, And here on earth come emulating flies, That though they never equal stars in size, (And they were never really stars at heart) Achieve at times a very star-like start. Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.

We're either nothing or a God's regret.