Stupid Sonnet
I’m in an artistic kind of a mood—
wanting to paint, write, traverse the lands;
I’m recalling my childhood—
thinking of tiny rings, bracelets, hands
I’m trying to write my first sonnet—you know?
I used as my model Sylvia Plath;
I’m reading her unabridged journals—slow
when I should be taking a bath
It’s comforting that she felt some of the same—
even though she was only nineteen;
so what if I’m frustrated and take all the blame—
I’m still wiser than I’ve ever been.
Shit, I thought this sonnet was done;
please bear with me—I’m having fun.
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