Sonnet Troubles
We all know my chance of being a poet
Is shot, way past the point of no return
But who am I to just give up the fight
It would be no fun… and yes, I know it
And I must confess on how the heart yearns
How can I make sense of this sudden flight?
This miraculous dream that I fear to shout
Ah, I am such a miserable lout
See; look here as the structure may fail
About a syllable short on that line ^
Perhaps the lady of tomorrow will hail
These awful skills of mine, from the divine
Roses are red, Violets are not
Write a poem of love? I just cannot