Confession
One hour in every hundred hours
I sing of childhood, birds and flowers;
Who reads my character in song
Will not see much that’s wrong.
But in my ninety hours and nine
I would not tell what thoughts are mine:
They’re not so pure as find their words
In songs of childhood, flowers and birds
View User's Journal
NOTHING IN PARTICULAR
There's a fine line between being creative and being crazy.
 |
