I wrote a poem about happy times with a lady,About how nice it feels to love and laugh like crazy,But there is after all a pen in my hand and not her hair.All happy stanzas have a sad air.

I want to die because I love you. I don't want to die because I love you.

To hear her speak of the things she caresIs the kindest gift, but task unfair.For this is the first time I've battled whether 'tisWrong to silence a beloved mind with a kiss.

How many more days will you wait for that clink--That you'll cross her mind and she'll finally see?People don't think of people as much as we think,But we think of people, so which people are we?

And here lies our conundrum: we hate the world when we talk about it, but if all of us hate the world for being mean, there is no world to hate. We’re stuck in theory and are entertaining an invisible villain. Up close, you get along with those supposed monsters. The world is made up of individual people who despise the world, but when meeting, they get along all the same. There is no evil society, only people we haven’t met yet.