Stand near the light; don't walk towards the door br I'm myself, quite myself br Though quiet inside, I don't know. br br Poets have often celebrated their pain br In verse with a swish of wine br My poetry has cleansed my mind often br Enabled me to feel rather fine br br When I, in restless creativity br In the perpetual outsider's angst br Tried with music to soothe my troubled mind br When I submitted to sleep with thanks br br How do I handle this feeling that comes upon me br At dawn, at dusk, at midnight, br I found the Woolfian and Plathian dilemna br Apt as only poetic pain can be, wrong or right. br br Artists, musicians, flying euphoric br Far in their dreams and the world looking at them br As though they, and they alone could not understand br The compact structured world and its angles br br While the pain got lost in all that trite rhetoric. br br Handling the pain before it becomes a bonfire br That consumes your life and all those who loved you br Handle the pain, now that it cannot be borne br Give it wings, let it fly, let it break through.