I feel like a child, sometimes, 
composing ridiculous rhymes 
without commanding, 
or even understanding, 
the feelings behind them. 
It seems I find them 
answering my questions 
and giving suggestions. 
Each is individually fairly good, 
and can be understood, 
yet together, now I know, 
they begin to show 
naivete and stupidity, 
not intelligence or rigidity. 
Sure, I can learn from a mistake; 
I see just how to make 
it again and again 
without end, 
falling to every little emotion, 
dizzily, as if I was spun 
around too much. 
Depression's a crutch. 

May 13, 1985