It is always such a celebration
in every single new adaptation
that I then pen upon the page
some new epic for a new age

While I while away my time
chasing a life of pure rhyme
never staying within these lines
plot and scheme my own designs

Just another creature of the night
ever indentured to the write
bound up in the poems I pen
forever returning once again

Capturing every single word
jotting it down before it is heard
weaving it into my canvas
before the moment can pass

Until all of my ink runs dry
when I then await another try
in the hope that might find
all these dreams I left behind

There is such a simple math
when it comes to Sylvia Plath
to this undying Confessional fad

for in order to finally add
one must first subtract
leave all balance left in tact

hence one must choose
to be prepared to then lose
before at last you dare take

that final line break

It could not be any clearer
how I must now deceive the mirror
assume another tragic role
even if it must then take its toll

For I have crawled many miles
painted on so many smiles
just to get where I am
using words I dare enjamb

Wanting to only just reveal
a hint at all that I do feel
all that I do still now know
within a perfect poetic flow

Ignoring all of those voices
offering such trivial choices
tried to convince me to stay
on a different path, a different way

While I take this empty stage
prepare to turn another page
even though this ink is not dry

ever certain of how I must try