Looks like I'm stuck
with what’s called by some,
my own, poetic “voice”.
But I’d love to write
like Keats, or Cummins,
or to be read as wide as Frost.
I’d love be as bold as Plath
or even half as known.
But I’m trapped inside
these words and forms, some flow,
some rhyming scheme.
And all to try and shout and scream,
so loud, but softly say:
Please listen to my little voice
I know it’s here to stay.
Sandra Osborne
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/voice/
