Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.

I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.

I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.

Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

Mother of otherness, Eat me.

I dream too much, work too little.