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Friday, April 18, 2008

Sonnet CIX

Thou dost affecteth Me with bloody wrists,
thrown o’er Me in supplication’s plea.
Don’t think I’m cruel enough to jest and hiss.
As Friend, I shall not mocketh Thee
or stab Thee with a dagger, poisoned-kissed,
or make thy head from thy sad body free,
curse thy eternal line with luck amiss,
or rip thy flesh from bone to torment Thee.

I am not cruel. But then again, you know…
those times you owed me money, never read
my e-mails, never answered back or called,
kept stuff I clearly only lent (the woe…)
But hey, guess what? Perhaps you should be dead.
I don’t need friends that friends me up the wall.

1 comment:

  1. Inspired by my friend Jenn Willson when she asked me, "Do you use old English words in your sonnet?"

    By the way, my reply was, "No...but that gives me an idea!" How typical...

    *PLEASE NOTE: the "friend" in this sonnet is completely fictitious. I'm not out to kill anyone...yet.


A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

Thanks, Wordle!