- OLDER SONNETS -
I hate writing sonnets, the rhyme schemes stink.
My poems are strange they break all the rules,
My sonnet to the real world bears no link.
I write my poems without any tools.
My thoughts have fled me I have writer's block
My writing hand is beginning to cramp.
I lean back in my chair then I take stock.
This stupid sonnet stinks worse than a tramp.
This assignment is almost over, done.
I read all the time and do my work well.
My writing style well I have but one.
Believe me when I tell you this won't sell.
I do not like to write this stupid stuff.
Listen now I say enough is enough.
Winter is like a smooth phase of the earth,
Sometimes it's cold or cool maybe bitter
In this kind of weather there can be birth,
Yes, all I know that this is called winter.
In the days of winter it is gorgeous,
It can snow, hail, rain in this kind of mist
But I know one thing for sure, it scares us,
God knows that he created this with a twist.
Up north is the coldest you will ever feel,
So many dry days in the south, wasted time
You'll be so anxious and like what's the deal,
Winter should be apart of your life time.
It maybe ice, it maybe rain, snow, hail,
But there's one thing about it, it doesn't sell.
Perceive thou now how the flower at night
Wilteth and dieth for want of the sun!
Though it be firmly riveted by fright,
Then closely observe thee how doth this one,
Stretcheth forth gingerly seeking some hint
Of Aurora's brilliant awakening.
Yet it finds none of this beautiful tint,
For some mad God hath slain the goldening!
And so it retreats, woeful and confused
Knowing not which action it shall next choose.
It ponders closed and dim how it has been bruised.
It realizes that all has been a ruse;
There is no bruise, and no God has gone mad.
The flower begins to grow and be glad.
Sometimes I dip my pen inside my mind,
And try to capture certain turns of thought,
But, when I'm finished, I most often find
That all my words and rhymes amount to naught.
And when I dip my pen inside my heart,
To try to reconstruct just what I feel,
My verses break and quickly fall apart
Leaving me to question what is real.
Or, when I dip my pen inside my soul,
Attempting to extract some higher truth,
My lines don't come out sounding like they're whole;
They sound like ramblings of some naive youth.
Sometimes I sit and write and write and write...
And feel I'm chasing shadows in the night.
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