A Lyrical Bonnet for the Crown on My Sonnet Swollen Skull

Look here, this makes no sense, I’m sure you’ll see.
I guess the rent I’ll pay with this … I hope
“Despite those things that say I won’t,” said he
“I write to say all of my thoughts … elope
I shan’t to the critique they give of it.”
Rant away ‘bout flaws in my rhetoric
Pout while I wrap you in lyrical whit,
Just spitting out rhymes; it’s no magic trick.
But I need a muse something more than booze,
More than promise of a dime or moonshine
Perhaps of a kiss or lack-thereof-blues.
From lips to fingertips I make words mine
I know … I’m humble. Nope, I’m not verbose,
Not D.F.W., keep your rope, Lowes.

—–

This is my first attempt at a Shakespearean sonnet, let me know what you think please.

Northern Flee

In the distance there burns a bright red fire
it beckons me and I yearn for it
and here there blows a cold breeze
I hide, but it freezes me.

So I sit and I wait for the day,
that I, grown and studied,
may move on towards the flame
and defrost.

I’ll gather with friends and dance
’round the glow and the warmth
and I’ll see their faces shining and grinning
spinning around until we’re surrounding embers.

What I’ll leave behind is a degenerating city
a trail of ice becoming water and evaporating,
forming steam over my new home
as I do transpose in glee.

Thoughts of Mine, Part 2: With You

Flurry of thoughts rush through my head
every part of my brain working
at a million miles per hour!
Then our lips part.

I thought my mind would not survive
the rush of emotions and hormones
bursting from that feeling,
of your lips against mine.

In that single moment I could feel every curvature,
every crevice
and the blood pumping from the pressure,
what strange beauty.

You’ve proven the impossible to me
and put new passions behind my words,
a word I’d expelled as a child
rekindled.

Thoughts of Mine, Part 1: Sans You

Sitting with my book in hand
reading of a young teen who has no chance
but in the land of literature,
he finds his love behind black rimmed glasses.

My life is not a novel
reality holds steady,
the expected is confirmed,
and fiction is reserved for the paper.

The words on the pages blur
black smudges
no longer have meaning,
then it clears.

A single droplet upon the word
distorts it
the warping effect of the lachrymose word
the one that’s impossible to define.

—————————–
Tell me what you think in the comments! Part 2 will be put up soon, I think you’ll like it.

Anger. Fear. You.

There is anger
and death and crime.
Power hungry politicians,
racism and chaos.
And then, well,
then there’s you.

One look in your eyes,
and everything seems just fine.
But it’s not and it’s crazy,
and destruction abounds.
There seems to be no peace,
then there’s you, then there’s you.

You’re the eye of the storm
the calm amiss disaster.
Weapons of destruction,
terrorism worldwide.
Nothing is right,
we’ve all become corrupted.

But you, there you are
with innocence in your eyes.
You’re a rare one
unscathed by the rotting world.
Hate, screaming, murder and tears,
then there’s you, then there’s you.

—————————-

This is a poem I randomly wrote in the middle of my AP Language & Composition class last year while I should’ve been doing classwork. Hope you like it, it’s a bit different from my usual stuff, I think.

Idea Virus

No no no!
I can’t do this,
Stick to what I’m good at
I’ve always said it.

I won’t do this
It’s not me,
Please don’t let me
I can’t breathe.

But if I do
Oh, then what?
What will you and I do?
We’ll see to that.

But if we don’t,
I guess I’ll just wait
And you can go
Tell everyone I’m done.

Wind

Swift and elegant motions;
drapery taken along by the wind
window still and silent
bright beams of light as ever brilliant.
Gusts of dense zephyr
into the peaceful disaster inside.

An irony among impossibilities
the dust lifts from the old furniture
swirls of dead skin in a lively home.
Nobody seems to notice,
everything is wrong
and the birds aren’t chirping.

The wind dies down,
but the palm trees still sway.
The dust begins to settle.
Nobody seems to notice,
everything is right
and a crow looks down from a cable.

Nothing’s moved since the blast
and nothing will again,
not there, not he.
The plume that rose
dissolves,
as it meets the settling dusk.