They Could Read Him, They

Poetry And Prison Have Always Been Neighbors.

When You Die Of Sorrow It's As If You've Broken All The Bones In Your Body, Bruised Yourself All Over, Cracked Your Skull. That's Sorrow.

If I Were To Say What I Really Think I Would Be Arrested Or Shut Away In A Lunatic Asylum. Come On, I Am Sure That It Would Be The Same For Everyone.

Every Book In The World Is Out There Waiting To Be Read By Me.

If Life Is Misery, Why Do We Endure It?