I can't go on flying apart just for those who want the benefit of a few verbal kicks. My God, do you know what poems like that cost? They're not written vicariously: they come out of actual suffering, real madness.

Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire

What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?

By daily dying, I have come to be.

Be sure that whatever you are is you.

Over every mountain there is a path, although it may not be seen from the valley.

The stones were sharp, The wind came at my back; Walking along the highway, Mincing like a cat.