Why art thou Romeo? And he couldn't reply.
"If Wordsworth had a different name,
Would his words still be worth something?
For a name is just a name, a noun."
I counted the letters that created my indentity,
There were eight, TAILORED and tied to me.
CREATION is the art of being concieved,
RETAINED as I was to this name.
If a rose had any other name it would still smell as sweet.
I had a different name for every day of the week.
Monday I was James, so suave and smart,
Tuesday, Darren, remembered for my art.
Jacob on Wednesday, a ladies man.
Thursdays I was Arthur, who made all the plans,
On Friday I was Kieran when I painted the town,
Lucas on Saturday to become the clown.
And on Sundays, well I was just Joe and nothing more.
And I could write no more,
Except to sign it, to the one I loved.
"There are a million people who I could be,
Sincerely yours, J.B."
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