sonnet 61
“i don’t know why i don’t tell her what’s real…
if i did, would my thoughts do any harm?
why wouldn’t she rather know how i feel?
i ponder that, taking her by the arm…
leading her away, in an effort to,
relay the burning desire within…
what means more than the words “i love you” do?
used in the past, they hadn’t matured then…
“i care for you”; more than any before,
or after her came, from a voice broken…
to echo my heart in words anymore;
can’t be done; so the rest’s left unspoken…
yet she still remains, therein lies the proof;
through exposure there can dwell hidden truth…”
sonnet 62
“i write about death, thoughts of suicide…
not my own, though that’s what some may figure…
when i pass on, i’ll have naturally died…
‘cause i’ll have naturally pulled the trigger…
wait, that’s not funny! where’s the lol?
where’s the indication this isn’t real?
i guess only those that know me can tell…
but i never bullshit ‘bout how i feel…
and i feel only a bullet will end…
“…thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to…”
when i quote shakespeare is when i descend;
into a place where i’ll “juliet” you…
to know the story; a verb from a name…
i’ll “romeo” me when you do the same…”
sonnet 63
“her “occhi sono sudato”; quote…
with each line read, the thought becomes wetter…
i’ve exposed my heart in a written note…
every penned word leaves a tear-stained letter…
“siamo sempre”’s the most famous line…
in more italian; it makes “us” profound…
“forever”’s the word we use to define;
the tie that keeps two kindred spirits bound…
yet as if seeking some treasure covered…
she continues on, sans hesitation…
to tell her my feelings, i’ve discovered…
a skilled hand’s best for that conversation…
and when she’s finished, teardrops will remain…
from two pairs of eyes capable of rain…”
sonnet 64
“sure, i’ve been profound since i was a child…
written poignant things that displayed talent…
but sometimes i like to cite oscar wilde…
he thinks like me, with an irish accent…
it’s “fuck humility” in softer verse…
a direct quote would simply be too long…
he said what i wrote, just without the curse…
but if he had, would it have made him wrong?
people that can, inspire jealousy…
from people that can’t, cannot, or can not…
i want to write so well the best envy…
and my best is giving them all i got…
like turning my thoughts into something noted…
so one day i’ll be the one who’s quoted…”
sonnet 65
“when i die, i’ll look myself in the face…
to reprimand with a finger waving…
the fact that i’d only lived to displace…
images of good men she’d been saving…
simply put, i’d altered her perception…
of what a loving companion should be…
i, having dealt in lies and deception…
meant the person she wanted wasn’t me…
i, having dealt in manipulation…
and plans to confuse her with my mind’s thoughts…
she met each and every stipulation…
just to chase me to death with whiskey shots…
when i die, she’ll look at me and wonder…
whose deeds really put me six feet under?”
sonnet 66
“i don’t want to hear “i love you” again;
anymore; like they’re words you’re supposed to…
say; now those words spoken almost akin…
to; the equivalent of verbal poo…
her doctor diagnosed “shit mouth disease”;
the last time she said “i love you” to me…
his opinion’s in order to appease;
she tosses around the phrase casually…
so it’s no surprise when it comes from moi…
it’s dismissed like i’d just let loose a fart…
sometimes i think loving’s my only flaw…
and that this body’s too small for my heart…
my doc pronounced i’ve “s.m.d.” as well…
“fuck, shit, ass, bitch, cunt; you can go to hell…”
sonnet 67
“everybody lauds the work that’s written…
my hand is brilliant, though not my genius…
i may create masterpieces by pen;
but i craft symphonies with my penis…
my “baton”, a tool to get her to sing…
a three-part harmony, it’ll conduct…
not that a choral term means anything;
merely an euphemism for “we fucked”
or maybe the phrase means more than it seems…
an expression to voice the “oohs” and “aahs”
from low guttural moans to high-pitched screams…
the noises she makes: a ménage-a-trois…
guess it actually does say more than that:
“i may not like pets but i own that cat…”
sonnet 68
“the two clichéd ships passing in the night…
metaphor for what we turned out to be…
my eyes trained on her ‘til she’s out of sight…
gone, and then there was nothing else to see…
sometimes i stare into the darkest black…
hoping one day she’ll return to my side…
if watching the night sky will bring her back…
i’m steadfast, for fear of being denied…
the thoughts of a man that she’d left behind,
are ones remembered; i can’t forget her…
every experience etched in my mind;
the shared moments of our time together…
i gaze into the heavens for a star,
wondering if she is any less far…”
sonnet 69
“a goddess to all, in egypt or rome,
or greece; she’s beauty: her face and her heart…
like the famous “aphrodite” in foam…
she’s a masterpiece; a real work of art…
poets write of her, those greater than me…
skilled with the use of a quill and a word;
penning lovely prose of what they doth see…
one that inspires; a title conferred…
a muse to me, my feelings of passion…
in describing her essence; all she is…
i “armani” words, that means i fashion…
thoughts of loving; dido and aeneus”…
i “versace” words, in the latest trend…
with praise for her on my lips 'til the end…”
sonnet 70
“five years ago when we made first contact...
eighteen hundred twenty-six days away...
i don't think i realized then the impact,
her presence would have on my life today...
on march twenty-third, two thousand and then...
the past; her words at a rant i'd posted...
funny how a mere comment can begin...
a bond of which i've actually boasted...
we've not shared a lifetime, but gladly spend;
the time in our lives sorting through the "mess"...
the truth is i love her more than a friend;
she's more than a friend, should i love her less?
"best i ever had"; "have", in terms of hearts...
sixty months later, still "drake" on the charts...”
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