Today’s writing assignment from my friend: write a sonnet. My choice of Petrarchan (8+6) or Shakespearean (4+4+4+2). My choice of subject matter. My choice of whether or not it actually remains a sonnet. My friend actually insisted that sometimes, aborting the scheme partway turns out better than keeping it.
For the record, it’s not a sonnet: it’s more than 14 lines and it doesn’t particularly rhyme — but it IS a poem. So I completed the assignment – and I do actually feel some small sense of accomplishment regarding that. Mainly because it was difficult – I worked on this poem from lunch on today during any free time I had.
Of course, please don’t mistake this to mean it’s a good poem. It’s still rough around the edges and even towards the center. However, I promised to post every day, so today, you get a poem.
Just please keep in mind that I’ve never called myself a poet.
Like a teenage boy, you shift your body
closer and closer to mine.
The air carries with it a weight of melancholy
that pierces my heart as your fingers trace the line
of the scar on my chest.
And your touch is so seductive, at first,
that I do not notice that your hand comes to rest
over the one place I asked you never to touch.
I always gave you anything you wanted
of my friends, my money, my days.
The landscape was always haunted
by you and that was okay as long as you stayed away
But before I can scream and tell you stop,
your hands dig deep and rip it apart –
Shredding between your fingers,
the very essence of me and my heart.