sonnet 41
“when all is black, what i see is your face…
every detail of it’s etched in my mind…
even though i should, i still can’t erase…
fair eyes that are of a different kind…
‘cause i’ve observed women with gorgeous eyes…
in emerald green or sapphire blue…
but once pretty brown ones held hidden lies…
the way that pretty brown ones sometimes do…
a woman’s eyes are her prize possession…
in every hue, they’re all colors of love…
and though one pair left a bad impression…
i’m sure that god sent yours from up above…
now i close my eyes in order to see…
how beautiful eyes look looking at me…”
sonnet 42
“wrote: “roses are red; a deep crimson hue…”…
which started a thought for a valentine…
never use “violets…”; they’re not really blue…
so i chose to “borrow” another line…
to say: “life’s like a box of chocolates…”…
as simile to describe the unknown…
when descriptions beneath tell what one gets;
why do people bite ones they hate then moan?
all the love contained in my heart-shaped box…
it is a sweetness of only one kind…
that's only released when someone unlocks…
a passion that real lovers seek to find…
if penned notes could do what candy hearts say…
then i want you to be mine every day…”
sonnet 43
“one similarly remarkable pair…
a boy and a girl connected by fate…
what happened to conclude life isn’t fair;
and caused it to become something to hate?
recalling the first “i love you” spoken…
its effect on a lover without love…
yet those remarkable words have broken…
the heart belonging to one she’d thought of…
to read past dialogue’s to know the script…
how what they’d been had become so much more…
he sees every penned line as feelings dripped…
his hand no longer has her to bleed for…
it’s easy to loathe a life without her…
still remarkable, just not what they were…”
sonnet 44
“i always keep her pic on my person…
despite the months having not talked to her…
sometimes seeing it i feel like cursin’…
or breaking shit ‘cause we aren’t what we were…
but four-letter bombs or trashing my stuff…
won’t get her to love me more thn she did…
i wanted her but that wasn’t enough…
exposed myself through thoughts usually hid…
still, though she’s gone i can’t help but reflect…
on times i caused the smile her photo shows…
something specific or more indirect…
i contend in that shot only she knows…
because of her being away from “us”…
i keep her picture, i feel that i must…”
sonnet 45
“wonder if my life’s as good as it gets…
every day i breathe, i hope that’s not true…
i exist only for solemn regrets…
o’er things i didn’t say or didn’t do…
reflections of an opportunity;
a chance to get to know a girl better…
got her to roll through my community…
to show her my thoughts in a penned letter…
here’s the thing, the moment passed that i missed…
we talked; “big lips” were an attribute claimed…
did that mean that she wanted to be kissed,
and if we’d touched mouths then would she have blamed;
me for misconstruing sarcastic speak,
or would we’d kept on ‘til her knees grew weak?”
sonnet 46
“women describe me with various words…
they’ve used “romantic”, passionate”; much more…
my favorite’s “quixotic”; that’s for nerds…
got that from me, never used it before…
but twice in my life females have written…
“where was i from?”; like i was, well, unique…
some difference’s what had them smitten…
when they’d looked back at others in critique…
i’m nothing special; was born of this earth…
a common man; not majestic, royal…
i was just raised sentimental from birth…
“me” ‘til i shuffle off this mortal coil”…
where am i from? it’s now the 3-3-0…
why i’m me’s what they really want to know…”
sonnet 47
“i once met a girl at a bus station…
well, encountered, seems a more fitting word…
while we both waited for transportation…
bulletins o’er the speaker could be heard…
we didn’t meet as much as our paths crossed…
noticed that she was on a bench staring…
i nodded; she stood up, asked of the cost…
if making the first move’d proved too daring…
said that'd take a boldness level higher…
words destined to promote a reaction…
in a crowded place; passion, desire…
my lips on her own, our tongues in action…
a horn announcing my bus was to blame…
for my leaving without getting her name…”
sonnet 48
“she’s singing: “brian loves me, this i know…”
“no, he didn’t”; yeah, i’m a blasphemer…
next line: “for it’s his touch that tells me so…”
i close my eyes, but only to dream her…
somewhere angels are permitted to love…
devote themselves to the pursuits of men…
in the dark of night, she’s what i think of…
memories of caressing her again…
she takes off her wings, stepping towards hell…
removes the golden halo from her head…
the last time she’d seen heaven’s when she fell…
i only know it when she’s in my bed…
“yes, brian loves me; yes, brian loves me…”
yes, loves her; even more than piety…”
sonnet 49
“a friend once said that i “overstand” love…
i’ve found it’s people i don’t understand…
exposing my heart in written thoughts of…
one worthy of prose penned by my own hand…
how can one truly believe that of me;
i grasp the concept of loving someone?
used as a verb; inspiration did flee…
used in a phrase; and the muses did run…
the truth is i’m over understanding…
over hearing ones speak love as they do…
problem is, if my love were demanding,
then it’d ideally be lost on me too…
and that would mean the best part of me died…
i’m a lover ‘cause i have love inside…”
sonnet 50
“i’m dismissed because i only have words…
literally; merely the things i cite…
if one were to divide me into thirds…
i’m one part: nouns; one part: verbs; one part: write…
when i seek out the hand of another…
i must do it with beautiful thoughts penned…
choice lines dedicated to a mother…
exquisite verses addressed to a friend…
can only conclude words make up my genes…
though who i am’s not helped get what i want…
seems a mastery of them only means…
irony is: it’s their master they taunt…
"i only have words", which is the right one;
that’ll cause the mockery to be done?”
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