Poets br walking br on the edge br of madness br it is said br produce the most br sublime verse br so much more than br the sane man ever could br put in a poem or with a pen br write about the souls of men br so is it acclaim that I would seek br or does that mean I'm mental weak br if I told you that I dream of running naked in the woods br just like a mad and crazy poet would or that I am so elated br at the colour of a simple leaf as it shines in autumn's golden light so brief br or that when I see a girl with golden hair that sways and twirls with a shimmering in every curl br my heart leaps up and shouts out loud to each and every one, to all the crowd, that I am truly proud br that I have it seems a gift to write and share what I see there; in that wondrous golden hair br and when my son says 'daddy look' and I see what he sees, without the shutters of life's closed book br and staring into rabbit's holes I do believe what Alice told and looking into your heart I feel what shines and what is dark br and typing furiously as I can I express that which I am; with thoughts of shadows creeping in br that blind the sight and cage the spirit that I have always been. No I have no fear of madness lurking near br it is an ecstasy within that speaks of dragons in their dens br and fairies dancing in the woods br but as a man that sits and looks br all these things I never would br write about or say to you br if I simply wanted to br be the fellow br on the bus br and never br ever make br a fuss.