The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

I don't understand why people have to connect things with feelings.
Can I not just be me and do things without people thinking I feel a particular way.
I don't analyse the things I do, there is no ulterior motive, I live for the moment, for what makes me feel good.
My life is about me.

'It's not like we're together...you can screw whoever you want...'