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