What can I say that Shakespeare could say not?
Elude me poetry, make me thy slave.
It’s humbling to know I could write a lot-
And still only birth thoughts fit for the grave
Must I write about just death and flowers-
Until my poor fingers are red and raw?
I too must suffer Virginia’s hours,
I too look upon the light Descartes saw.
Rhyming and prose are as freed wild horses-
Reign-less: uncontrolled by my novice hands.
A passionate rush of hot blood courses-
Through my tangled veins, fervor swells my glands.
Emotion blinds me where trance should take me
And make beautiful this soliloquy
© 2005 voix de femme
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Printed from www.DarkPoetry.com/dp/3774/72502 on Monday October 13th, 2008 11:54 PM
Certain elements © 1996-2008 Matthew Steven (matts.org)
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