Much Of Your Pain Is

I Am A Poet Who Composes What Life Proses, And Who Proses What Life Composes.

The Only Time A Juggler / Appeals To Me / Is When I See Him / Miss The Ball.

Only Once Have I Been Made Mute. It Was When A Man Asked Me, 'who Are You?'

Our God, Who Art Our Winged Self, It Is Thy Will In Us That Willeth. It Is Thy Desire In Us That Desireth. It Is Thy Urge In Us That Would Turn Our Nights, Which Are Thine, Into Days Which Are Thine Also. We Cannot Ask Thee For Aught, For Thou Knowest Our Needs Before They Are Born In Us: Thou Art Our Need; And In Giving Us More Of Thyself Thou Givest Us All.

The Best Love Come From The Heart, Not From The Mouth.