• I

    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.


    "Dear You..."
    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."