Sonnet XXXI

The noisy masses irritate me so;
It irks me more when I’m told friends are fun.
And when I think, “I want to be alone!”
There’s no one who can understand my wants.

I’m not a stingy, anti-social freak:
I have my friends; I’m genial to them all.
But still, their minds are small and far too weak
To comprehend the magnitude of me.

With her I feel no need to hide my brain.
In fact, she stimulates and challenges my mind.
She’s mute, when quiet’s what I want to gain,
By talking, intellect is present in her words.

Compliant, but she’s capable of thought -
She’s more than charming, she can THINK as well.

Sonnet XXX

I’m always filled with pride that I can write.
I’m arrogant, and think to rival those
Who wrote the greatest works of literature.
No doubt, that foolishness is trite.

On reading Dickinson, I read her twice;
Her meanings are so rich and deep and wise.
And Shakespeare, virtuoso of his words
Becomes the Bard when read again but thrice.

It’s humbling seeing how my words compare
To poetry composed by geniuses.
Indeed their reputations aren’t made up,
For truly depth and character are theirs.

I write well for my age but still I know
That skills by modesty are thus endowed.

Sonnet XXIX

Appoggiaturas, mordents, trills adorn
The unaccompanied melody of birds.
Combined, their voices mingle in the fugue
Of nature, so majestic, but also so forlorn.

As simple as the calls of joyous birds,
Our world contains such loveliness;
Obstructed now by human barricades.
However, still, there’s time to save our earth.

Reflecting back on songs of birds, I think
There’s nothing lovelier than nature’s own
And in my heart, a little envy grows
Because my art’s confined to human means.

Oh! What artists birds do seem to be!
They sing without a care so naturally.

Sonnet XXVIII

The brightest man-made lamp cannot replicate
Bold sunlit days or gently moonlit nights.
The greatest painter cannot imitate
The arbitrary beauty of the clouds.

The brightest jewel, by humans modified
Proves worthless to the majesty of mounts.
Our best inventions simply are denied
The natural power of our planet’s laws.

Because we’re lost in human fantasies,
The outside world is boxed and pushed away.
On viewing nature now one can’t but see
The world through groggy holes of human sieves.

Destroy our downscaled, human hindrances,
Which dim our eyes to what the earth contains.

Sonnet XXVII

The faded mirror, stamped with alien thoughts,
Reflects back, mute, suggestive of the past.
Nostalgic visions, clouding what should be
Confuse themselves, and mingle randomly.

On viewing mirrored worlds so faraway
What should we think of disillusioned dreams?
Those burning images, imprinted there
In fiery glass, that dance to murky airs?

Are memories so dangerous to us?
Can we not reminisce of happier days?
And yet, what causes more of our disdain?
Past bliss we cannot have, or present pain?

My pride of old is fleeting very fast…
I’m just a blurry imprint of the past.

Sonnet XXVI

I feel so trapped and stripped of all I love.
I cannot choose, but choices have been made.
I hate confinement more than death itself.
Without my freedom, I would rather pain invade.

Please cast me from my wicked captor’s grasp.
Enslavement withers me as heat does plants.
Pugnacious, hackneyed, putrid artifice:
The tyrant of my dreams and thoughts and plans.

Alas, the only ones who see my pain are those
Who are my family, and see my plunge.
Myself included, snares are unobserved
And slowly bliss, by bondage, is expunged.

Invisibly, detainment overrides
My self-esteem, my happiness, and pride.

Sonnet XXV

The snow’s still there, pristine despite the mud,
But when the next day comes, it snows some more.
It seems the battle's strangely wavering:
Today Spring lost; but won the day before.

A constant bid for power ‘gainst the two,
Sometimes the ground is covered with white snow.
It melts, then all is lost – it snows again.
Who’ll win, it’s hard to tell, no one will know.

And then, abruptly, sunshine warms our skin;
The animals begin their spring routines;
The grass and leaves on the trees turn emerald;
The winter seems a distant memory.

The winter, pallid by compare, seems plain.
As spring, a kindly comrade, comes again.

Sonnet XXIV

Why can’t it hurry up? I wonder now.
It’s April and I see no shining sun.
No birds or butterflies or melting snow.
Impatience grows as winter forfeits fun.

And still a harsh wind, obstinate, persists.
The winter, stubborn, still stays starkly staid,
Or maybe spring, in guise, taunts cruelly yet
And masks its true intent with servile gales.

Spring seems to taunt and tease, being hot or cold.
It leaves all guessing what is happening.
A cruel and wicked jokester spring does seem
Instead of spreading joy and nurturing.

Spring uses subterfuge to slyly bring
The earth astray and going ‘round in rings.

Sonnet XXIII

Contraption in my mouth, I hate you so.
You bring me shameful strife and pain and woe.
My swollen gums and yellowed teeth cannot
Compare with joy that braceless teeth can bring.

Expensive though you are, all claim you mend
The problems of the teeth. All recommend.
But ah! Why should I care? You hurt me so!
To them I say, “Just let me free, at once!”

Alas, the wait will still take many days.
And slowly days do pass, the price one pays
For straightened teeth I once had in my youth.
And yet I’m still enslaved to metal fads.

I’d rather die with crooked teeth than straight
Because I at least I wouldn’t have this fate.

Sonnet XXII

My vast plantation glows a crimson green.
My loyal workers comb the lawn for worms.
Mechanically they bob their silly dance
while shimmering a darkly luscious sheen.

At noon they rest and gossip just a bit,
rejoining others at another spot.
Alarmed, they sometimes briskly flit away
and then regroup to share more of their wit.

Some days they never come to visit me.
(My green plantations don a jealous jade)
We envy all the trees that steal our friends,
who spurn our warm and gracious charity.

Then we connive, like dogs to get our feed
whilst happy days, unhindered, still proceed.

Sonnet XXI

White porcelain, all spotted with green drips
of toothpaste, with remains of meals consumed.
And adding to the medley of the morgue:
rust-coloured patches, marked from water’s whips.

In ghastly beauty, took from their remains,
a hoard of shiny wings are spread like lard.
More water sprays, the massacre proceeds.
All flattened, corpses lay, prostrate with pains.

Swirled in circumference round the massive grave,
Their tiny bodies, killed without concern
are splattered, mixed with blood and chemicals.
The dead ones, live ones, all I cannot save…

In guilt I watch them fall to awful fates,
lamenting, washing, drowning at swift rates.

Sonnet XX

Today I am emancipated for
I’m free and not dejected – pain defied!
I realize who I am! I’m wonderful!
For once, I’m happy, truly satisfied.

My self-esteem was low, pushed down by those
Who criticized and mocked and killed my soul.
My individuality was robbed.
The scraps of me were stolen from the whole.

But now, I’ve broken free, my shackles torn!
I feel as if the haze has disappeared.
I see myself more clearly, in new light,
As who I am – I’m great! My foes have erred!

Forget what others say to you – believe
You’re faultless, blameless as you are – don’t grieve!

Sonnet XIX

The very sight of her is adequate:
Her shimmering hair, her lucent, brilliant eyes.
She is divine to me, as if she was
A vision, sent to me, in brightness lit.

My love is close enough for me to kiss;
I see her daily, blithe and elegant.
But silence fills the void between ourselves,
Replacing words that, said, would tarnish bliss.

I want to hide my love from prying eyes,
And thus, my anguish burns, but even so
It seems she cheers me when I’m not content.
She is so biddable, but bright and wise.

I wish to show her that I love her still…
But should I? Indecisiveness is foul.

Sonnet XVIII

The afternoon is done, a bus I take.
The ride is dull, the same routine each day.
I take a book, and read the whole long way,
But time goes slowly past, unhurried still.

The bus has stopped, to drop some children off.
I see a car outside, and look within.
A baby, tucked inside, gives little grins,
Alone and quiet, small and vulnerable.

I wonder where the baby’s parents are.
Surrounded only by apartments there,
The child is lone, and still I mutely stare.
I wonder how this child will grow up.

This present world is cruel and cold and stark.
It’s truly sad how we must learn the truth.

Sonnet XVII

Although it’s silly, anxious thoughts stay near.
Dogs scare me, loudly barking constantly.
I don’t know why those canines are beloved.
But fear is foolish, dogs are victims here.

Domestication is so very sad.
Dogs live their lives, subservient to our kind,
Dependent on our kindness for their lives.
We give them treats, or not if they are bad.

But still, we claim we bring them happiness.
However, they seem more like pliant toys.
Should animals be forced to please our whims?
We’re stuck in ruts that we can’t think of less.

I wonder if we’re just like locked-up dogs.
Our lives are trapped, we’re caught against our wills.

Sonnet XVI

Love is a gift that honours those involved,
And yet a curse it is when it’s revoked.
Although it’s cherished, prized above all things,
When gone, love leaves us empty, flown with wings.

A journey through life’s pains I have endured,
And smitten, I was glad to be supplied
With love’s great happiness and sad goodbyes
But now love’s gift has left off to the skies.

Alas, love is a wondrous gift that brings
The happiness that only love creates,
A joy that fills its victims with remorse
When love’s great gifts are gone with fate’s cruel course.

Love is a gift, and now, love’s gift is gone
and so I cry with thoughts of days bygone.

Sonnet XV

This present world, I think, is now a mess.
While some are destitute the rest ignore
The strife we try our best now to suppress.
Let’s take a look at how our world has died…

Without our money, we are lost at sea,
A sea of people, trapped in plastic lives
Who seem to cringe without their currency.
Without our cash, we seem all doomed to death.

With talent, we can’t go far in life.
It is no use unless one has their cash.
We’re dumb and dull as worn-down, helpless knives
That media, ads, and pop stars dominate.

So we are trapped in fruitless, stupid lives:
We need our money: coins and dollar bills.

Sonnet XIV

It’s said that love makes instant poets yet
I’m skilled already in the art of poetry.
I write so gladly; rules I must defy,
For now, in love, I find my tongue is tied.

This sonnet truthfully, took days to write,
Where usually they take but half an hour.
I don’t know why or how love twists its spell,
But now I know it’s this poor poet’s hell.

I cannot say my love has been returned,
But she has tangled me in love’s cruel knots.
She knows not that my love exists for her.
Too young to die, yet dying from her spurn.

A silence dawns, made from a loss of sense,
But I would live in silence, just for her.

Sonnet XIII

I think that snow is sadly misaligned
Because it’s hard to shovel and so cold.
But snow, in fact, is truly our great gift.
Its simple beauty cannot be untold.

On quiet nights, when silence starts to dawn,
The moon is out on graceful midnight flights.
In cars a few still dare to roam about
Where snowflakes look like glitter under lights.

And fields of snow appear as wondrous sheets;
On sidewalks sugar dusts the ground in sprays.
The trees shine boldly with their lustrous limbs
As snow snakes wisp in numerous varied ways.

To me, the snow is precious yet obstructs
The world upon it lights, and beautifies.

Sonnet XII

Exhaustion catches up with me once more
As hours squandered haunt my memory.
Defiant, slovenly and leisurely,
I shirk my duty, till it turns to chore.

I’m not productive, lazy in the night,
Abusing hours – time I should have used.
When wasted, time turns me to criminal
For spending time on trivial delight.

My guilt is chiding me, with skillful knack -
It’s savage, yet appears so innocent!
I’m thinking of those times I quickly spent,
the times that now I cannot beckon back.

Bad habits swell, endowed by wasted time
until they torment me and turn to crime!

Sonnet XI

To be the ridicule of those untamed
Is not a pleasant feeling, I admit.
My guilt is fed; my brain a burning mess
when thinking that perhaps I should be blamed.

My character is practical but brusque,
Perhaps too stiff, dogmatic, arduous.
I’ll bend the iron wills of hardy fools,
their dispositions hardened by distrust.

And yet, I still decide it’s all their fault.
If I relent, they all persist with joy;
Their treason’s deep and hard to shake away
And like the wind, becomes so hard to halt.

Thus cruelty starts with wicked deeds and words;
rewards with sin, dishonesty, and hurt.

Sonnet X

We all have our own insecurities
So heap them on the one who’s here to blame
The scapegoat of our bitter circumstance
Betrayal, lies, and mocking is our game.

Well, mockery is only part of it
The pain cut clear across is better still
Of course, there’s guilt – but isn’t it still here?
The point is that we break his spirit’s will.

It’s sad how minute mockery is played
We taunt our peers and take the satisfaction
In truth we fool ourselves, called quick to grins
Integrity is lost within our wicked faction

By putting taunts on others we instead
Place foolishness and fault upon our head.

Sonnet IX

I keep a pretence, well-maintained by fools.
I'm put in place by those who know me not.
Shoved in a box, and moved about by strings,
Contained within a tiny world of kings.

I'm orchestrated by a melody
That's filled with rhythm, strict and quite a bore.
A place for freedom's solace there is not,
Just flasks of tears that strictness deft has brought.

An inch of space I have no room to fit
Into the limits of my prison cell.
Filled up with fibres of my saddened soul,
Which float about torn up from feeble dole.

Routines of pointless tasks and aimless sneers,
I beg you, hear my cries and see my tears.

Sonnet VIII

I leap across the jade and lustrous grass,
Toward the rising sun, with shining hues.
The morning dawns upon me gracefully
In years my joy has not been this profuse.

What beauty lies here in this sacred world?
Like angels birds trill with a pure delight,
Their bliss and charm abounds with innocence
Through days and weeks their songs ring through the night.

The morning and the evenings run about,
All melting into each and mixing free.
They gallop like the wind that rushes here,
Fair and gentle, like the cold night’s breeze.

What freedom spreads before us here?
What envious life awaits us happy near?

Sonnet VII

A soul is floating in the universe,
The tiny world of glass and spreading leaves.
With eyes of gold as round and hued as sun
And fins of silk like rich brocaded sleeves.

So graceful, trailing clear and silver cloth,
Thou swimmest gently in the shining sea.
Though wounded badly here you still persist
In swimming, living – courage I do see.

Your body shimmers, like the moon’s desires.
Your movements simple, yet perfection shows
How sad you seem to be, but brave you are.
My pleasure, from your grace and beauty flows.

Thou art my friend, my granted silent wish,
None other than my much-loved, loving fish.

Sonnet VI

I’m sorry for what I have left undone.
I’m sorry for the things I should have done.
And things I should have said to you before,
The things you asked, the things I undertook.

Despair is far worse than I can withstand,
And so I take it to the grave and die.
My selfishness is more than you can stand,
So death, of course, gives you release as well.

I drown in waters of my grief and pain,
The river of my painful misery.
My lake of everlasting, saddened rain,
The ocean of my bleak, eternal tears.

I leave this with you now, all this to read.
Make sense of it and wisdom, seize and heed.

Sonnet V

To die a thousand times, a painful death,
To end the lives of misery's foul breath;
Of drugs and failure, crossed paths and strange ways
To strangle, sicken, drown, and pass away.

My life is far from hell, I know it’s true,
But help me die and resurrect the grave
Of sick desires, ambitions that enslave,
The things I wanted, but were took from me.

Of course, my mind is far from typical,
With evil thoughts and plans it is quite full.
I surely shall destroy the world around;
If I’m not stopped I’ll surely slay myself.

The lies with which the world has drugged me with
Are drowning me with poison, strong and swift.

Sonnet IV

A thousand souls have suffered here today,
Expectant of the summer’s golden praise.
Instead we’re scorched in pangs of heated flame.
We have unleashed a beast we cannot tame.

And so we ride in vehicles of doom,
Not caring whether we should surely die.
Short term effects deceive what all do see;
All we care of is what the cost shall be.

While half the world lives in their happy state,
The others die in scorching worlds of hate.
It’s really staggered how we’ve come to be.
We’re crashing to the end, can you not see?

We’re blinded by the light that shades us still.
Its name is IGNORANCE, our binding ill.

Sonnet III

Grey clouds prevail the sky this dismal day,
As grim as days before and days to come.
The future seems as dark as heavens here,
So dark the firmament begins to tear.

What cruel and evil fate is this endured?
What tortured kind of mockery is this?
This life offends me so - it is not fair!
Within my soul the fabric starts to tear.

The dullness mounts, and threatens wickedly,
Yet somehow, strains prevail and reign as well.
Day’s hours are not long enough for me,
Yet surely I wish days would cease to be.

Perhaps my mind is truly much deranged,
And thus I wish instead to here be hanged.

Sonnet II

Ambition fails me here and now once more.
This twisted passion falsely guides me through.
The labyrinth of the heart is black with war,
With strange desires, evil tendencies.

My heart grows sick with jealousy.
All joyous, you who love the gracious calm.
Within the bliss, disaster’s revelry.
Unrest dawns here, though happiness prevails.

Insane I am, it’s true and very so,
For envy here I hold for reason not.
Disastrous ways shall cause much strife and woe,
The first of which pervades my very life.

The spite still grows within my hated soul;
To live the day unharmed, that is my goal.

Sonnet I

I’m sorry that you hate all that I am.
I’m sorry that the world agrees – how sad.
And so they laugh with you like hungry wolves,
Upon the moon’s arrival, all are mad.

It’s not my fault I’m better than you’ll be.
By God, I’m still atrocious at some things.
Compare is false; we all lack something true,
For that’s what gives our gracious souls their wings.

I have ambitions – true, but don’t we all?
Don’t criticize me for my dignity.
For sticks and stones won’t break – can’t break – my bones.
The taunts you fling are useless – you shall see.

Although my cry is lost within the crowd,
Soon mockery is only but a shroud.