Article
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I try to write a piece you'd like,
but still I find the effort is a waste.
So though I push into all hours of the night,
the dark gives me but meager crumbs to taste.
And failure soon becomes the point of thought,
which flies all hope away from heartless cries.
No simple joy or tear or pulse is caught,
without first existing through demise.
But I'm no newborn to this callused world.
My pen has known the sadness I have loved.
That even now, I still see clear the girl
who long ago pushed in this lethal drug.
It's conquered me in such a way!
That not to God, but you I pray.
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A bit underwhelmed...
Posted Jul 6, 2008
A noble attempt. It's nice to see that people are still interested in writing sonnets. There is also some interesting imagery.
Understandably when one writes in meter there is going to be some inherent rigidity. But the majority of the piece seems forced, like you were trying a bi... (
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