I've Been Criticised For Writing

Whatever The Hell I Am, I Am Me.

She Looked, And A Scarlet Butterfly Flew Away From Her, Away Down The Length Of The Tower, And Then Another, Another, An Unraveling Scarf Of Butterflies Like Winged Blood.

It's Very Selfish When I Write. I'm Not Aware, Ever, Of Writing For Another Person; I'm Not Even Really Aware Of Writing For Myself.

The Humble Were The Elect Of God. Did Not The Priests Teach So, In Their Gemmed, Kingly Robes, From Their Towering Pulpits?

I'm Not Very Good At Being Alive. Sometimes I Despair Of Ever Mastering It, Getting It Right. When I'm Old, Perhaps.