Mere singing makes not a singer,
Nor mere writing, a writer.
Wishing is not believing,
Nor a promise, a deed.

A dilettante's life is a life unfulfilled,
Dabbling, trying, touching without feeling.
A life must be more, with its pain and its joy,
Without depth, one swims in a shallow pond,
And dies, unremembered, and in need.

Living is immersion, not simply connected,
But one with your passions.
Like a steed seeking freedom,
Take the bit in your teeth, and run!
Run until you bleed.

Dare to be ridiculous,
Dare to lay bare your soul,
Dare the slings and arrows
Of those less willing and more fearful.
Drink deeply from life's fountain, drink indeed.