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.