I very rarely write poetry anymore, darlings — and when I do, it’s generally impersonal. I spent all my energy baring my emotions — and so I put that part of me away in a box under the bed, or maybe in the back of the closet, I’m not sure. Because being raw is difficult, and painful. It took all the strength I had not to fall apart. I kept trying hard to mend the pieces of my broken heart, and I spent oh so many nights just feeling sorry for myself — I used to cry.. Wait.
Cribbing lyrics from Gloria Gaynor? Seriously? This is what it’s come to? No, darlings, I promise you better than that. Go check out my offering for Well Tempered Bards.
When Hamlet went mad
I was Ophelia
drowning in a river of tears.
But I came back to play another role
as I always do.
If you thought I was truly Ophelia,
you are Shakespeare’s fickle fool.
I may only be mad north-by-northwest,
but you wear your naïveté like a strait-jacket,
and that froth around your mouth confirms my suspicions.
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