Categories > Original > Poetry0 Reviews
A sonnet about myself writing. It's lighter than my others. Italian, one-shot, no break, and no, I didn't mean to rhyme 7 lines.
the soft scratch of graphite writing, jotting,
always capturing my idead, all over land...
The sond much calmer than a text's ping.
And as I, to my relief, softly fanned
my finished piece, beauty as my shaking
hand wrote the title and opened a canned
Sprite, smiling weakly at end of writing.
Once more I picked up my faithful pencil,
preparing to begin again, feelings
poured out on paper, without a council,
my sonnet appeared before my seeing
eyes, beauty on paper, beside the sill.
I glance outside and think, "I love writing."
This one sucks, so you have to imagine sitting in an english chair, my a window, looking out over a foggy lake, finishing up one thing and starting the next. A lot of these words didn't make sense, like "without a council", but there's two reasons there: one, because council echoes pencil; and two, because I really write without thinking or planning. What it is is what it is.