I'm a peasantI'm the muzhikA pest you're destined to play the musicAnd yes it's pleasant to say it's beauty I'mIndebted to rest respecting it truly

By far, the hardest part regarding a work of art, apart from the start, is knowing precisely when to stop...It's growing up, finding that most glowing and top spot, ascending to where its highest peak is reached...before descending for the deepest, darkest drop.

I won't be stuck in traffic 'til I see how rugged my path isAnd right now I'm loving how fast my troubles are fastingNo they don't bother me oh realizing I'm psychopathicA wild beast, baby I'm gladly running afterYes a thing called peace outlasting any madnessThe devil fears me oh he's feelingLike a fragment of a fractionNo he won't come near me'Cause his hat trick's out of practice

I once began to ask around what constitutes a good poem. It felt petty, in a sense. A boy would need no help in deciding which girls he thinks are pretty.

You ask me why I don't speakNot a word at willBut write so much worth well over a mill'Well I value words like I value kissesA sober one, a closer one penetrates the heartDarling it's how it mends it

They'll pass judgment until the day she's deadLike she needs another voice in her headShe expected more advice, I saidNothing... I listened... something she'd never had

Not too fashionable, still, she was admirable, intellectual; and yet to many, factual, though fairly objectionable, when met through claiming: 'I don't respect you unless you respect truth.