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