What More Needs to Be Said?
I had read Shakespeare’s sonnets
and watched cumming’s leaves fall,
yet still had not felt
any emotion at all
Eighteen, forty-three?
Juliet, barely thirteen at the time of her fall
Dickinson’s carriage carried a cold comfort
and Burns left his red rose white
Wilcox spoke of love’s language
Was she right?
Then soon consumed by my own thoughts
But not smitten; just spite
We have to look inside ourselves
to see why we are lonely
When I peered inside
I saw me only
We cannot love until we grow ourselves
a barren soul, solely
The words were never for them
they were mine from the beginning
How one grows can not be changed
and blossoming first is not always winning
I needed to discover that
loving yourself is not sinning
So whatever is done [despite what’s been written] is done by me only,
to quote cummings,
My actions, my words, my doing, my darling