Sonnet XXX

I’m always filled with pride that I can write.
I’m arrogant, and think to rival those
Who wrote the greatest works of literature.
No doubt, that foolishness is trite.

On reading Dickinson, I read her twice;
Her meanings are so rich and deep and wise.
And Shakespeare, virtuoso of his words
Becomes the Bard when read again but thrice.

It’s humbling seeing how my words compare
To poetry composed by geniuses.
Indeed their reputations aren’t made up,
For truly depth and character are theirs.

I write well for my age but still I know
That skills by modesty are thus endowed.