Why should poetry have to make sense?

The world today doesn't make sense, so why should I paint pictures that do?

That is why, no matter how desperate the predicament is, I am always very much in earnest about clutching my cane, straightening my derby hat and fixing my tie, even though I have just landed on my head.

Mourn not the dead that in the cool earth lie--
Dust unto dust--
The calm, sweet earth that mothers all who die
As all men must;

Mourn not your captive comrades who must dwell--
Too strong to strive--
Within each steel-bound coffin of a cell,
Buried alive;

But rather mourn the apathetic throng--
The cowed and the meek--
Who see the world's great anguish and its wrong
And dare not speak!

My pain may be the reason for somebody's laugh.
But my laugh must never be the reason for somebody's pain.

That's all any of us are: amateurs. We don't live long enough to be anything else.