Sometimes these words seem to spin through mist;
All organized, in order, as self-trickery,
And you've bitten all these words which could have kissed,
And taken what I've found as comfort, as illusory.

Why use these words with such malice, such contempt?
Have I in some strange way, committed wrong?
Why use all these words, which are bent in meek attempt,
To sing me my self-hate within a song?

Take these words, and swallow them,
As my frightened mind cares less;
Take these words and follow them,
As I wish for words which bless.