A friend challenged me to write my next blog post
In (Shakespeare’s) sonnet form. Bed-ridden, I force
Coughs, heaving breaths to pass hours and boast
Weak English skills to speak my mind’s discourse.
The sick waits in my chest. Bombs burst black fire
From lungs, pierce heart, grip throat. Within the walls
Of music’s madhouse, quavers cut the air
Mocking the girl who dreams for concert halls,
The gratitude of crowds and a red dress
For her amusement. But I see a sky
Whose plaster grey brings not hope, but distress,
A cup of acid, hassled hair and sighs.
As I’m pushed back down, silenced, far away
The mighty world flies through another day.