My sensitivity is a blessing and a curse; I’m nice, but a snake
When the vain, sensitive things I love are really at stake.
A stolen cigarette, or a stolen love, make me lose my mind.
Sensitivity must protect itself. That’s why I’m sometimes unkind.
I write poetry, because a poem is both slow and fast—
Writing the poem is quick and convenient, but the good ones last,
And so I cannot think of an easier means to glory;
Better than bravery, work, or working on a long story.
Greatness is my aim, and I practice it with ease:
Paper, pen, an idea, twelve rhymes, a dream beneath the trees.
Then if I am confident, indifferent, mysteriously glad,
Lazy, privileged, and languorously slender—please don’t be mad.