Sonnet CCCLIII

Epiphany? My love is shorn to shreds!
A guileless love beguiled by devious ends…
Dark, bitter grief ignites my inner core –
I cannot love this monster anymore!


And yet – I tremble at each docile smile!
I loved the clever traitor all the while.
I now regret that fatal day, when first –
a charming word deceived my artless thirst.


And yes, I still feel dearly for the fiend;
a foolish heart does not know want from need.


Ignore the ingrate! Flee the treachery!
But how we still dream fondly, stubbornly;
demanding vengeance for our suffering,
yet far too weak to do the injuring.

Sonnet CCXXXVII

The words of men are webs. The sticks of men are words.
Obstructing blue the sky, they branch from trees,
enlaced in branches there, obstructing what I see.
I hear their rustling calls, like twitting of the birds,
and yet, they seem as bears, as trunks from where they spring.
Obstructing me, I cannot see, I cannot breathe –
and darkness of their interweaving swallows earth.

But can they swallow me? They come from tiny seeds,
an acorn maybe, sometimes from ambitious weeds.

And so, can webs of trees – envelop me in dark?
They try, a canopy above my upward head,
but burn in lightning’s blaze, turn green with envy’s bark
and sicken, die like toads, from webs die overfed.

Sonnet CCXXXV

If Nature is the Model, what is Purpose then?
To Mirror it as children do, much like the sea?
To Worship it, exalting all the lofty trees?
To Dwell in it, and spread its surface with our men?

If Nature is the Model, find it here again:
Suspended in a faucet, rivers run for me.
Suspended in a window, lights are suns let free.
Suspended in a box, the air is trapped within.

So shall the Purpose be to copy all its grace?
Or mutiny, rebelling from its youthful face?

Perhaps the Purpose shall be both, or else we lie.
Reflection finds its way into our lives with ease,
but variation finds its way to be appeased,
and so we run around, spin mad, or else comply.

Sonnet CCXXV

If ill-appearing discords issue forth from me,
speak not of them. But rather, hide them with your flaws
of human blasphemy. Outstretch your lying claws
with kind deception, masked with lovely flattery.
Ignore ignoble Conscience, screaming honesty;
it lies, despite what seems to be a wholesome cause.
How else do feelings stay intact, as thin as gauze?
We live on lies, existing on our treachery.

But lying here, how do you know I tell the truth?
Thus, therein lies the paradox of lies and truth.

You cannot know what’s hidden from your hungry eyes.
Lugubrious, I may be happy hidden here;
ecstatic, deep repose is clandestine – but near.
And what lies here shall be returned with other lies.

Sonnet CLXIV

Her name was Mary Jones, I think.
And though my school was private, pious, old –
she never filled the Virgin Mary role
and just was wicked, female, crudely mean.

She drove the bus I rode each day to school,
arriving early to my house at times but then
arriving late at times. In bitter wind
I perished, cursing her as vile, cruel.

But then she gave me candy canes at times
like Christmas, Easter, days before March Break.
But still I loathed her – sloppy, late, and glum.
She thought she’d win us over with her lies?
Her sad excuses covering her fake
and sad, disgusting life? We kids weren’t dumb.

Sonnet CXLII

Was I as dumb and blind as those Grade 5’s
who sit in buses every day in front?
The media and biases in life
affected them so deeply it affronts
the wholesomeness to which the youth did strive
in times since passed. It makes our lives seem blunt
by sad compare. How wickedly they pry!
How foolishly dependent and defunct!

They flaunt their musical devices like
a book, so good and wise and valuable.
They speak of news without the truthful lies,
but with the bias printed in their souls.

They lost their innocence in their short lives,
and now, corrupt, are grossly so morose.

Sonnet CXVI

I need no titles on my poetry.
They’re pointless, hindering my true intent.
Each word is laden with my watchful eye,
by readers passed and warmly, gladly sent.
When titles coldly summarize, they lie.
The depth and meaning of my words can bend
to your interpretation. Titles try.
But rigidly, they sell my thoughts for rent.

If anytime I wanted you to know
what I was saying, then I would have said.
But when? For meanings change as day turns night,
as sunsets change their glowing pinks to brown.
As flowers fall and turn to feed the dead,
as shifting shadows stop to tell their plight.

Sonnet XCII

I do not jest when this I say to you:
all orthodontists lie! They’re scheming sprites.
Your money’s gobbled up like cotton food.
For what? To fix your faulty, shifted bite?

It’s garbage. I am pretty sure you’d live
with teeth than just aren’t straight or pearly white.
Don’t say it’s fashionable, superlative.
Sedating public masses isn’t right.

Conspiracies of dental masterminds…
how devious! They wave degrees around
to show their capabilities like shrines.
How treachery like wildfire abounds!

But no…don’t take my wise advice, you fool…
you WILL be sucked into a plot this cruel.

Sonnet LXXXIII

The mirror insults me, not for its plain face,
but for the nature of its glassy stare.
Two wholes, alike, not meant to be a pair.
Its difference of sameness a disgrace.

Shall future joy exclude me, entering here?
I will not know; I mask all well, you see.
But still, as faulty allies break their creed,
the truth remains, a taunting little leer.

Alas, I’m superstitious, mutely so.
I’d never break a mirror willingly.
So shamefully the twins stay gleefully,
observant in their grief and undertows.

As over-replication causes waste
so do the many lies, which make distaste.

Sonnet LXXI

I want a gentle pat upon my head
and you to say I’m good all of the time.
Review my talents, comment on my strengths,
and say for all these things I have a knack.

These happy words and actions are now gone.
Of late I’m drowned in harsh reality.
Forever I will look upon these times
and wonder how those complements I won.

One thing I have to say: Don’t lie but tell
the Truth. I don’t need all your pretty tales.
Don’t float my ships with falsehoods you designed
to make my confidence and ego swell.

I’m not implying that you should be stark,
but don’t dilute good criticism’s sharks.

Sonnet LXVIII

Oh even all the rustlings of the note,
the difficulty of the glue-sealed flap
were fraught with grief. To cry I did not know
but felt tears tear me up inside.

The breeze was warm, the sun was warm as well.
The leaves foreshadowed all the rustling yet.
And then did happiness begin to swell?
Was freedom finally there, the silenced free?

And still I do not know how lies were made
but that they saved the feelings of that She.
To think, the woman I fought in Crusades
could still instil some pity within me.

The coldness of her looks will haunt me still,
but tears at her partaking bring mine own.

Sonnet L

And though through death my slumber is but reaped,
Eternity shall break my salvaged rest.
Though immortality will be my prayer
It kills the purpose of my death – to sleep.

Ah, long eternity will wait for me.
That dismal length of time where boredom lays.
I cannot help society or such
And human pleasures I could never see.

Eternity, a cruel and ugly word,
Which makes the thought of Heaven feebly dry.
If I was to but live for all of time
What uselessness and boredom I’d incur!

Oh, sad infinity, which is a lie.
In calm fulfilment I would rather die.

Sonnet XLIII

Why do I loathe thee? Let me reminisce…
Your avarice is blinding, selfish dunce.
You act is if to be so smart (how fun!).
Your selfishness and pride both at me hiss.

Haha! I’m glad you are so stupid, foe!
You do not know that now I secretly,
Behind your back, as you have done to me,
Plot your demise, and hate you, muchly so.

To think! I once thought of you as a friend!
Manipulation is your only skill?
You sicken me, you and your cunning ends.
You bore me with your tales and will to ill.

And if God choose, God-fearing, stupid fool,
Please burn in Hell and drown in poison pools.

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 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.