Emily knew the conceit

Of false poets

Those who write for others

And not themselves

So she closed her bedroom door

And opened up her window

She studied her world

Like none before or since

Not even the smallest detail

Escaped her mind's eye

The world in her realm

Collected on bits of paper

Was damn near perfect

And hers and hers alone

So in her satisfaction

She tucked it in a drawer

For no one there to see

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James Mackay's picture

emily dickinson right? i love her work. she is by far my favourite poet! i guess that sometimes i don't understand her work, but as you say she wrote for herself not to please or enlighten me! i love her...brevity.