Writing
There Is Nothing Left To Say
But you should say it anyway
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No man is an island — wait, that’s no good. How is the ghost of John Donne haunting me from my Grade 12 English Literature class?
How do I love thee? Let me count — scratch that; that’s not me either.
Once upon a midnight dreary — crap, that’s that damn Raven! Poe, get out of my head!
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood — dammit, no, that’s Frost.
I wandered lonely as a cloud — hmmm, that sounds familiar too. Wordsworth, I think.
I met a traveler from an antique land — Shelley, what are you doing in my brain? Now I’m not going to be able to get that image of those two stone legs in the sand out of my mind.
Because I could not stop for death — There! That sounds good; let me just Goog — ugh. Why, Emily Dickinson, why?!
Why are all the good words taken? Years, decades, centuries of thought, of pen to paper, that’s why. There really is nothing new under the sun, as they say. There’s just slightly different ways of saying the same old things.
