I Guess They Call It Suicide, But

I Wanted To Do Everything Once And For All And Be Through With It.

Poetry, I Feel, Is A Tyrannical Discipline, You've Got To Go So Far, So Fast, In Such A Small Space That You've Just Got To Turn Away All The Peripherals.

The Sheets Grow Heavy As A Lecher's Kiss.

I Felt Wise And Cynical As All Hell.

I Must Learn More About These People―try To Understand Them, Put Myself In Their Place. No, Instead I Am So Busy Keeping My Head Above Water That I Scarcely Know Who I Am, Much Less Who Anyone Else Is.