Ah, but to be a poet you must begin flayed... for as Kierkegaard said (to paraphrase slightly because my memory is not what google wants it to be 
):
What is a poet? An unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music. The people crowd around the poet and say to him: "Sing for us again soon"; that is as much as to say: "May new sufferings torment your soul."
But flayed, flaccid or febrile, we must not be caffiene free -- life is just too short
):What is a poet? An unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music. The people crowd around the poet and say to him: "Sing for us again soon"; that is as much as to say: "May new sufferings torment your soul."
But flayed, flaccid or febrile, we must not be caffiene free -- life is just too short
It could be worse