I’d rather pen one simple poem, than knit my brows and make a tome of million pages (or more..or less), be praised to death by all the sages; in any case, I’m all alone (a big mess). The sky is wanting, begging rain, to pour its waters on the plain, dry from seeking heaven’s rest, –THIS MEANS YOU! where poets nest, their darkened lairs suffused with pain. From time to time, though, there’s respite, even rapture! from deepest thoughts and all the rest, but, to grasp! to grasp a line that’s straight and true can only lead me back..to you. Is this simple enough? do I make myself clear..dear?? to have you know my sentiment as I’ve expressed it’s not worthy of your, eh! love, mm, respect, and admiration and honor; and never will..reach that height of excellence ever, to be so? No! no, not by a long shot (you know). The END