These are the days that must happen to you.
Everybody is writing, writing, writing - worst of all, writing poetry. It'd be better if the whole tribe of the scribblers - every damned one of us - were sent off somewhere with tool chests to do some honest work.
Resist much, obey little.
And I or you pocketless of a dime, may purchase the pick of the earth.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable.
Keep your face always toward the sunshine - and shadows will fall behind you.