Everyone Is A Hurting Child
There are many remarkable women
That the boundary of historical years
Has prevented me from meeting.
I have often been near tears
Reading the fragments of Sappho,
Or merely gazing at a photograph
Of Emily Dickinson.
When I was a young boy,
I remember reading the Bell Jar
And seeing pictures of Sylvia Plath,
I thought she was so beautiful,
Nearly as beautiful as her amazing words
That brought both fear and sorrow
To my tiny beating teenage heart.
She was dead in 1963,
A year before my birth,
I still hoped there was some way
To love and rescue her!
Now, as the years unwind
Through broken relationships and dark nights,
I’ve come to realize, everyone is a hurting child
And that I’ve made more women sad than sweetly smile.