self-injury.net

Robert Lowell also didn't come while I was there. Sylvia Plath had come and gone. What is it about meter and cadence and rhythm that makes their makers mad?

As I hide behind these books I read,
While scribbling my poetry,
Like art could save a wretch like me,
With some ideal ideology that no one can hope to achieve.
And I am never real; it is just a sketch of me.
And everything I made is trite and cheap
And a waste of paint, of tape, of time.

We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.