A pen! A pen! The woeful poet needs to write,
Let this trembling grasping hand
Take hold that rod of might,
That I with all my eloquence,
My deepest thoughts inscribe —
That I may bleed a thread of blue
Upon a sheet of white.

A word, a verse, to tell my deepest longings
To carve the imprints of my heart
In sordid shades of ink,
To paint in strokes of deadness,
The vividness of feeling,
To tie a flaming heartache,
In one cold violet string.

A sheet, a scroll, to hold my spirit captive,
This whitewashed tombstone be a frame
To shackle all my grief
This rigidly lined paper
As prizing bars persist
To hold my spirit captive,
A cag’ed exhibit.

 

Please excuse the melodrama. This was written when I was 17, and exploring my identity as a poet. I include this as an example of my early poetry.