First, a quote from Thomas Macaulay "Perhaps no person can be a poet, or even enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind."
Ode to Swisher
Smoke, you drift as you leave my lips tightly pressed, you twist and climb as the demons that talk to me climb heavenward and fade out of sight. Your textureless form facinates me as you curl all around. My nostrills are filled with your vile poisening odor. You drive down into my innermost being, burning and gaging the life out of me. Your lies have become truth to me. In the past I despised you, now I welcome you with open arms.
And now for a quickie from Kipling.
A fool there was and he made his prayer To a rag and bone and a hank of hair We called her the woman who did not care But the fool he called her his lady fair.