Death of my Muse- Hopefully my last sonnet EVER
I have no idea why anyone (other than my unnamed English 12 teacher) would want to read this, but I really like it so I'll post it here and hope that someone other than myself likes it.
As a moment of self-beratement (before I even start to type the horrendous thing) I admit that it is absolutely and completely nonsensical unless I happen to be the reader. Also, the rhyme scheme and structure is very far off from anything Shakespeare (the cause of my horrendous sonnet) would have written. What can I say? My style varies greatly from his, as will become obvious in about five seconds. Here is my horrible effort on a sonnet.
Death of my Muse; Why I hate School
My hate for school burns deep; flows like lava
Hot flames lick at my consciousness. Sleepless.
Anger boils blood that should run like nada
Not bubble, clot, burst! This is my distress.
Dying, slowly, blood leaks out under skin.
Bruised marks show, but she's not been beaten, yet.
Waiting for a bell or death; waining thin
Air too thick, lungs too small, never forget
Due dates, homework, projects, classwork don't end.
Graded harshly, killed my muse; write no more
As she lay dying, works I did begin
Never conclude. She makes no sound; no more.
Graduation can revive her, I know,
Until then, she lies still; pure as white snow.
Now time for more self-abuse. I hate the way the tone changes. I wanted to keep it angry; I wanted the fight to literally survive a school day to be felt by those horrible people who force me into the building and subsequently into class every day. I wanted to blame my internal death on the morons who believe that the institution is the greatest thing for kids since breast milk. I wanted to stay angry.
But when the poem's story killed my muse (for any true writer knows that a story writes itself), all the anger left me. All I could think about was "How can i revive my muse in this? I can't end this with a dead muse! I need my muse! Poem, bring my muse back!" So I became hopeful instead of angry and now the thought process I began this sonnet with has died and been replaced by a sense of hope for everything after graduation.
My mother hates it as well. She mostly hates the topic, but any mother telling their child that one of their creations is "hate-able" is enough to induce either a permanent "I hate my mother and everything about her," or a semi-permanent "Nothing I ever do is good enough for you, mother! So I give up writing, drawing, and making music because it all SUCKS ANYWAY! HAPPY NOW MOTHER!?!"
Oh well, whatever. I'll just continue to make things she doesn't like and put them anywhere she can access them easily. I mean, I was only half serious when I said I think my poem sucks donkey shit through a straw. You know?
As a moment of self-beratement (before I even start to type the horrendous thing) I admit that it is absolutely and completely nonsensical unless I happen to be the reader. Also, the rhyme scheme and structure is very far off from anything Shakespeare (the cause of my horrendous sonnet) would have written. What can I say? My style varies greatly from his, as will become obvious in about five seconds. Here is my horrible effort on a sonnet.
Death of my Muse; Why I hate School
My hate for school burns deep; flows like lava
Hot flames lick at my consciousness. Sleepless.
Anger boils blood that should run like nada
Not bubble, clot, burst! This is my distress.
Dying, slowly, blood leaks out under skin.
Bruised marks show, but she's not been beaten, yet.
Waiting for a bell or death; waining thin
Air too thick, lungs too small, never forget
Due dates, homework, projects, classwork don't end.
Graded harshly, killed my muse; write no more
As she lay dying, works I did begin
Never conclude. She makes no sound; no more.
Graduation can revive her, I know,
Until then, she lies still; pure as white snow.
Now time for more self-abuse. I hate the way the tone changes. I wanted to keep it angry; I wanted the fight to literally survive a school day to be felt by those horrible people who force me into the building and subsequently into class every day. I wanted to blame my internal death on the morons who believe that the institution is the greatest thing for kids since breast milk. I wanted to stay angry.
But when the poem's story killed my muse (for any true writer knows that a story writes itself), all the anger left me. All I could think about was "How can i revive my muse in this? I can't end this with a dead muse! I need my muse! Poem, bring my muse back!" So I became hopeful instead of angry and now the thought process I began this sonnet with has died and been replaced by a sense of hope for everything after graduation.
My mother hates it as well. She mostly hates the topic, but any mother telling their child that one of their creations is "hate-able" is enough to induce either a permanent "I hate my mother and everything about her," or a semi-permanent "Nothing I ever do is good enough for you, mother! So I give up writing, drawing, and making music because it all SUCKS ANYWAY! HAPPY NOW MOTHER!?!"
Oh well, whatever. I'll just continue to make things she doesn't like and put them anywhere she can access them easily. I mean, I was only half serious when I said I think my poem sucks donkey shit through a straw. You know?