Of twenty thoughts,
You write down one.

Of ten notes,
You work out one.

Of five drafts,
You might use one.

Of all the poems in the world,
Nobody ever reads one.

The cemetery of good ideas

Lies full of prancing ponies.

Immortal are the Shakey Speares.

All other rhymes are phonies.

Words are just wind. They don't take space.

Art flies, fast as a fart.

Just one or two are coup de grâce:

I save them in my heart.