I would distain to be a character
in one or many of the classic acts
wherein I’d sacrifice myself if e'er
I might find presence only in the past.
There all would look at me and wonder how
an artist with such skill could sculpt me so.
And in this irony, as 'tis called now,
still those who "know" me best, me hardly know!
I would distain to live by others words,
each hanging my intentions to their own.
While screenplays dare not script the flight of birds,
instead, expect love, ne'er having been grown.
What I would rather do had I not been
so tightly reined by such a sharpened pen?