Just using titles of poems (or fragments) of ONE poet or writer, answer these questions. Do NOT use the same writer as me. Try not to repeat any title. It is harder than can possibly think it is. Post it as "My Life According To (Writer)".

Choose Your Writer:
George Gordon Byron (a.k.a. Lord Byron)

¿Are you male or female?
"Mortal!" 'twas thus she spake

Describe yourself:
Wisdom, love, and power were mine,
And health and youth possess'd me;
My goblets blush'd from every vine,
And lovely forms caress'd me;
I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes,
And felt my soul grow tender;
All earth can give, or mortal prize,
Was mine of regal splendour.

How are you feeling?
The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding;
Revenge is lost in Agony
And wild Remorse to rage succeeding.

If you could go anywhere, where would you go to?
The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of War and Peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phœbus sprung!

Favourite method of transportation:
"And what shall I ride in?" quoth Lucifer then
"If I follow'd my taste, indeed,
I should mount in a waggon of wounded men,
And smile to see them bleed.

Your best friends are:
Of friends I've known a goodly hundred
For finding one in each acquaintance,
By some deceiv'd, by others plunder'd,
Friendship, to me, was not repentance

Favourite colour:
And all was black.

How's the weather?
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air and the clouds perish'd.

Favourite time of the day?:
The moment night with dusky mantle covers the skies (and the more duskily the better)

If your life was a TV show, what would it be called?
Away, away, ye notes of woe.

Ideal birthday gift:
Love in full life and length, not love ideal,
No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name,
But something better still, so very real

Life is:
There is a mystic thread of life
So dearly wreath'd with mine alone,
That destiny's relentless knife
At once must sever both, or none.

Your relationship:
I do not, love, suspect your truth,
With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not,
Warm was the passion of my youth,
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.

Fears:
Remind me not, remind me not,
Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours,
When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till time unnerves our vital powers,
And thou and I shall cease to be.

Best advice you can give?
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle
Are doubly bitter from that thought:
'Tis this which breaks the heart thou greivest,
Too well thou lov'st --- too soon thou leavest.

If you could change your name, you would be?:
Julia

Thought of the day:
There are two hearts whose movements thrill,
In unison so closely sweet,
That pulse to pulse responsive still
They both must heave, or cease to beat.

How would you like to die:
'T is vain to struggle -- let me perish young --
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved;
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,
And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved.

Current state of the soul:
Yes ! 'tis a glorious thought to me,
Nor longer shall my soul repine,
Whate'er thou art or e'er shall be,
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.

Best kept secret:
If thus, when to my heart embrac'd,
No pleasure in your eyes is trac'd,
You may be prudent, fair, and chaste,
But ah! my girl, you do not love.

Your motto:
Too oft is a smile,
But the hypocrite's wile,
To mask detestation, or fear,
Give me the soft sigh,
Whilst the soul telling eye
Is dimm'd, for a time, with a tear.