Loathe, Love, Lathe
Alain Ginsberg
What is in a name?

What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet:
And what makes a rose but petals and a stem?
Water to make it grow or water to make it die,
To drown or dehydrate is the same by any other name
And no one asks what a rose’s parents would say if they
Chose to be a lily or peony or hydrangea and death by any name
is still finality or the beginning of something entirely new
and I hope at my funeral no one asks if my parents meant for this
when I do not know if they even meant to make this mess
that I blossomed into, and what makes a rose but petals and a stem?
Thorns and I do so forget about violence until my blood is out
Again and I am trying my best not to see myself as a heap but
What is my name except something to wear?