He threw his set up to the sky,
Threw Crip and sported blue.
He thought that he would never die-
And this at twenty-two!
And now he sleeps among the shells,
Along with vile germs.
Within his belly dwells the snails,
Within his head, the worms.
"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for."
~Dead Poet's Society~