Categories > Original > Poetry
Writing
0 ReviewsA 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 feel of pen and paper in my hand,
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.
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.
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