Laces Barber

I intend to live,
Or die trying,
I always fall,
But still love flying,
...

These thoughts of my creation,
Stream clumsily from my mind,
Dreaming's my occupation,
And as a dreamer, I am blind.
...

What is this world but stealing air to waste on breath?
What am I worth? Nought but death?
What is there in the dank drear of my own mind,
But thoughts that bind the hope of something left but
...