Clearly possessed by Petrarch
So the other day, I started writing poetry. Me. I NEVER write poetry. As in I never get the slightest inclination to turn anything into a poem. Prose and scripts are my creative outlets. Yet suddenly this came out. What the hell?
And it's not just a poem, it's a SONNET. A sonnet, people! A rather cliche-ridden sonnet to boot. What in the world possessed me to write a sonnet? Perhaps I was possessed by the spirit of Petrarch. Also, it sucks as a sonnet because it is not in perfect iambic pentameter. And, as I already said, cliche-ridden. But here it is, the result of my madness (NOTE: The change in gender IS on purpose. Really. A very artistic, meaningful purpose. Sure it is).
My Muse is a most fickle dame,
Who rarely flies down from above,
For when I try to summon her, she is lame,
And scorns me and denies me her love.
Until she transforms to a warrior proud
That o’erthrows my senses, actions, my soul.
When rarely he conquers, completely I am bowed
To his will, else I am not whole.
Enthralled to him, I am forced to write,
‘Tis the only cure for my disease,
Else burned inside I am by his might,
No-one else understands or sees:
That when he is near me, he dost inspire,
And I must write or be burned by forbidden fire.
So yes, I honestly would like you all to tell me how much my rhymes, meter and metaphors suck. I am no poet, so why must I be compelled to write poetry?!
And it's not just a poem, it's a SONNET. A sonnet, people! A rather cliche-ridden sonnet to boot. What in the world possessed me to write a sonnet? Perhaps I was possessed by the spirit of Petrarch. Also, it sucks as a sonnet because it is not in perfect iambic pentameter. And, as I already said, cliche-ridden. But here it is, the result of my madness (NOTE: The change in gender IS on purpose. Really. A very artistic, meaningful purpose. Sure it is).
My Muse is a most fickle dame,
Who rarely flies down from above,
For when I try to summon her, she is lame,
And scorns me and denies me her love.
Until she transforms to a warrior proud
That o’erthrows my senses, actions, my soul.
When rarely he conquers, completely I am bowed
To his will, else I am not whole.
Enthralled to him, I am forced to write,
‘Tis the only cure for my disease,
Else burned inside I am by his might,
No-one else understands or sees:
That when he is near me, he dost inspire,
And I must write or be burned by forbidden fire.
So yes, I honestly would like you all to tell me how much my rhymes, meter and metaphors suck. I am no poet, so why must I be compelled to write poetry?!