(a sonnet in iambic pentameter)

I was drawn to you, from the first instant
something about you aroused my senses
a message unspoken, and insistent
that could somehow bypass my defenses.

I couldn’t show it, you couldn’t know it,
so I sat quietly and ignored you.
When chasing dreams, love is unbefitting
this I’d been told, and so, it must be true.

When I met you again, you were funny,
not what I assumed, you were something new.

Hashtag, as a boyfriend, he’s been money,
such was the start of our kissing booth truth.

She born as a sad news, starts burgeoning
as she grows, her miseries following
flows with the rhythm, held in curtailment
reach to the juncture of a new lament
Wedlock with duty, chore and torturing
tis’ chapter of her life yet keeps going.
Getting older and older by inchmeal
bids adieu to her beauty with genteel
and bidding farewell to her weary soul
In grave unrequited, another book closed.

This poem’s not in
Iambic Pentameter,
It is a haiku.

Still searching for something to fill the void
The early silence trade for endless pain
And when my mind is screaming, filled with noise
If sanity is dead, am I insane?

Oh how I want to give my soul to thee
So I don’t have to hurt it anymore
The only thing I have to fear is me,
You tell me that I’m broken, are you sure?

With all the many lies to me you’ve fed
I see the truth that’s lingering afar
Hung on too long, to let you go I dread
I’ll leave this suffering, still plagued by scars

Embrace the pain. With it comes wisdom too.
Wake up, my dear. From death springs life anew.

Their gears twist and turn, cranking tirelessly
Round the mortal coils of a mellower
Art and content of games played wirelessly.
The game boards are awash with bellowers,
Slighted pawns too bound by echo tubing
Passed around to fortunetellers frightened
By town criers trying to throw heartstrings
Of lovers obsessed with burdens lightened.
"She is trapped and he the trapper," they say.
Shall he free her and see her twist and break?
Maybe that is her choice," but not today,
Or tomorrow or the next," he risks fate.
      Their goal is obvious: parting those two.
      Too bad their love is a folie à deux.

Righteous anger is intoxicating;
Brain cells sold to the fiction of the mind.
It funds peddlers too loudly debating:
Oh, what to do with words spent on designs
Of machines combating contradictions?
Their motherboards are hardwired for the ****.
Any thoughts or beliefs on opinions?
Just wait for their hunger to get its fill.
Nothing like teeth flushed with red and venom.
***, death, and chocolate cannot compare
To the moral high ground's cheap decorum
Of beliefs held in contempt and despair.
      Because paying attention to the wit
      Of my getting hard done by is the ****.

The kitchen table, dimly lit, at which
Sit I, with book propp’d up upon the edge,
And in my hand, a mug bedeck’d with owls,
To the brim fill’d with sweet cinnamon chai.
The room as warm as summer, walls protect.
And I look out at the surrounding black
Becoming lost deep in the rain and wind
Which whirls without, just like a dancer wild
Would swirl a ribbon round and round their head.
But i sit in my isle of warmth and light.
While they are locked outside, in  fath’mless dark.