(NOT) A Sonnet
A sonnet is hard to write, with four quatrains,
And ends with just one couplet at the close.
The iambic form is such a tricky strain,
The rhyming makes my brain feel tight and closed.
A sonnet’s strange, so dusty, old, and weird.
Its hype has faded, no more does it glow.
Now Shakespeare’s gone, his words aren’t bright and clear,
Yet still, I need to feel his timeless flow.
I stumble through the lines without much grace,
And yet I’d like to try to write it still.
I feel no beat, no rhythm, and no pace,
Just words that fall apart against my will.
But after three quatrains, I start to soar,
Rhymes and verses dance inside my head.
The final couplet, one I can’t ignore
Now flows with ease, no longer faced with dread.
Now I feel like Shakespeare, but something’s not right…
The last line does not rhyme!
