Some people say that poetry has died.
No point to put on paper poesy bold,
No longer needing sonnets - rhymes of old
Which one inside can softer feelings hide.
To Netflix, Insta, Amazon they run
And dull their brains with shows of Island’s Love.
No thoughts of flowers, nightingales or doves;
Minds choked with wealth and *** and hate, and guns.
But never they’ve seen your smile in morning’s light
And wished to catch it – tangled, held in rhyme.
They’ve never placed their head upon your lap
And felt the need to jar the safe delight
Of looking into eyes so warm, sublime,
And thought of methods, forms: eternal traps.
A Valentine's Day Petrarchan sonnet with a Crybin rhyme scheme.
Grindr open, glaring livid,
Green my eyes, and heart constricted.
Orange, blue, the conversation,
Can’t you stick to *******?
A short one about a guy using Grindr in front of me during a date.
I once had a chance to be happy,
But just like a babe with full *****,
I soiled it myself,
Then ruined my health,
And now I feel awfully ******!
I held your hands and looked at you that day
I stepped on yours to save my ruptured pump.
I said “don’t want”, but “can’t” is surely true,
To be with you is taxing, draining, blue.
I’m happy now and pleased you're good at last.
Surprising, friends we stayed. Our hearts: recast.
— The End —