On writing a sonnet, this much is true,
Tis better to be blue or scorned by love,
Have witnessed the grace in a passing dove,
Studied Shakespeare or St. Vincent Milay,
Else you'll be left out, only to dismay.
Your words must be rich, and butchered, and rhymed
Thoughts must be flowing and very well timed.
Then you will be one of the elite few.
A brooding thought here, a metaphor there,
Quatrains and couplets, ten syllable lines,
Tangled in a pit of poetic vines.
Once you have finished, not even aware,
Passion morphed into pedantic affair,
Your soul torn apart by linguistic mines.
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