Much Of Your Pain Is

A Look Which Reveals Inward Stress Adds More Beauty To The Face, No Matter How Much Tragedy And Pain It Bespeaks; But The Face Which, In Silence, Does Not Announce Hidden Mysteries Is Not Beautiful, Regardless Of The Symmetry Of Its Features.

The Tears That You Spill, The Sorrowful, Are Sweeter Than The Laughter Of Snobs And The Guffaws Of Scoffers.

You See But Your Shadow When You Turn Your Back To The Sun.

Poetry Is A Deal Of Joy And Pain And Wonder, With A Dash Of The Dictionary.

And Some Of Your Elders Remember Pleasures With Regret Like Wrongs Committed In Drunkenness. But Regret Is The Beclouding Of The Mind And Not Its Chastisement. They Should Remember Their Pleasures With Gratitude, As They Would The Harvest Of A Summer.