taken/ taught

Whenever Millay, Plath, and Bogan form a line,

define my spine,

on my floor—

Each time Pound, Poe, and cummings overwhelm til I'm blind,

decide that they must bind,

and barricade my door—

Should Whitman, Behn and Gilman continue to reach into my core— 

I wonder: which essences of just me will remain afterwards...

Will any at all,

anymore? 

I know I only have so much time,

and I feel it's best-spent when reading and writing the rhymes,

but at what point do I soundly decide 

that it's alright to pen my own, and set beloved anthologies aside?

Their words and worlds have morphed the ones I speak and see,

have informed every moment, and made me happy to be "V;"

Their stories fit in pocket, and find fellowship in my head,

yet I still fear that post-done,

post-said,

there's only a place for me in my bed.  

The entirety of my being can be attributed to beautiful phrases,

but I've begun to loosen my grip, in the hope that I can craft distinct pages;

and though these sages

     have helped me naviagate mazes

          for what now feels like ages,

I love that the words in my own mind are rattling their cages.