I Was Made At Right

Being A Poet Is One Of The Unhealthier Jobs--no Regular Hours, So Many Temptations!

Hoping To Live Days Of Greater Happiness, I Forget That Days Of Less Happiness Are Passing By.

Lose Something Every Day. Accept The Fluster Of Lost Door Keys, The Hour Badly Spent. The Art Of Losing Isn't Hard To Master.

What One Seems To Want In Art, In Experiencing It, Is The Same Thing That Is Necessary For Its Creation, A Self-forgetful, Perfectly Useless Concentration.

I Am Overcome By My Own Amazing Sloth...can You Please Forgive Me And Believe That It Is Really Because I Want To Do Something Well That I Don't Do It At All?