the curse of a very sorry girl poet

-
when has writing ever been enough?
this sorry thorn on my side,
not knowing
just never knowing
whether it is better to let it bleed or let it poke
and all the shame returned to me
on a beautiful autumn night
when
everything
had been going so right.
when else does it all go so wrong?
i suppose now is a good time.
why was i stubborn as a child?
why couldn't i 
leave this rhyming behind?
for more honourable things
and far more admirable gifts
is it true that
my fate lies in
what my beauty brings?
oh mother!
the very little that i can do
and vanity does not make up for the
things my untrained hands cannot do.
and was it a crime to read so much?
or find so much solace in writing.
curse the pen and the hand that holds it;
for making me
nothing but 
a very sorry girl poet.


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