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 CXXV

The moving pictures sometimes startle me,
their vividness is so believable.
The feelings felt so very vast and free,
the stories told so very palpable.

And yet the misinterpretations seen -
the segregation, so inevitable,
the liberty some take with history -
these things imprint themselves into our skulls.

And labelling becomes more prominent,
and scanty links with truth become less rare
and entertainment turns to ignorance.

Our joy should not be thought-imprisonment;
our movies shouldn’t bring those hopeless stares;
but wise enlightenment, not ignorance.

Sonnet XCIII

Don’t put me near a baby learning shapes,
for I won’t fit in any of the holes.
I’m not the perfect size or height or shape.
Frustration soon would take its nasty toll.

I’d make a horrible and disliked shoe:
the boxes wouldn’t hold my length or width,
my oddness would create unrest anew,
for shoes don’t always fit (that’s just a myth).

So I should be content to be myself,
but humans have their own confines and moulds.
Each day we face the traps that gladly quell
our vast diversity with norms we’re told.

If nature made us each uniquely rare,
why should we use like standards to compare?

Sonnet LXXXIX

I saw a girl this morning, crying tears.
Her eyes were fire, bitter in her head,
of anger, pain, and sorrow’s burning fear,
by dismal happenchance and fate misled.

You’ve seen this girl. But what about her tears?
This girl could be a mother, working shifts
to feed three mouths, abandoned for a year.

Perhaps the woman shunned despite her gifts?

Perhaps cashiers who dreamt of more?
Perhaps the servant of her boyfriend’s whims?
The ever-giving wife, by all ignored?
The gal paid less because her name is Kim?

You think it’s easy for a sobbing girl
to live her life as scapegoat of the world?

Sonnet LXXXI

I learnt that creativity is mean.
A bit like kids from daycare I called “friends”.
You know, those bullies that ate all your snacks
then stole your toys and lied to meet their ends.

He knows no bounds. Your generosity’s
a waste. Besides, your deadlines disappear,
for creativity ignores all time.
An hour turns to days, then squandered years.

So fickle, fleeing all time like the birds
then coming back and plaguing you at night
or in the middle of your favourite soap
or during dinner, saving you some bites.

One thing I’ve learnt – that muses can’t be true.
Rely on them and kill your wishes too.

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 XLVIII

The sun is beating down so favourably!
Vacations all will take to happy lands.
The cars we drive pollute – but we don’t care!
They harm the future, but they harm not me!

The sun is beating down so violently.
Oh Africa! Lands of despair, of falling tears.
What have you done to warrant this?
Your children have no food nor families.

Two halves, one darkening, staggered home for all.
One sun, two frightful images compared.
While some eat dust, there’s others so obese
That helping’s action is too great for them.

We squander and we waste and stuff ourselves.
While others writhe in hear, we spoil ourselves.