Making fun and judging made me immune to sorrow.
Pity hurts me today. And it will be worse tomorrow.
Youthful insensitivity
is gone. Welcome, poetry.
Mercy grows. I feel sorry for plants.
It’s a disease. I feel sorry for ants.
Poor little robot creatures walking along.
Navigating the floor. Ignorant of song.
How many can I pity? How many are there?
More than I can put in my poetry.
All this sensitivity and care
has brought me to the brink of despair.
Who can live in my noble realm?
Only poems survive here.
I need a certain enthusiasm to write.
Oh let me have this madness. I’ll be alright.