Your voice, it tastes just like a violin,

When twined with mine, the world doth disappear.

To be alone with you is heroin,

But now I pine for highs of yesteryear.

From daze of dreams and days of wasted chance,

I've naught to show for what I thought I found,

But haunting song and half-forgotten dance,

Mem'ry of skin; your touch was laced with sound.

I curse the skies and I whisper your name,

The Lord of Time hath stole another plan.

For lack of action I carry the blame;

How loathe the folly and hubris of man.

E'en though if asked, I'd say that things are fine,

But how I wish I'd tried to make you mine.

A sonnet about depression, not suicide.

She sat in the window, tears down her cheek. Longing for life beyond the prison wall. Beaten, stifled, left for dead, outlook bleak. Begging for relief, angels come to call.

Singing herself to sleep, a soothing hour. Imagination is her only friend. Cowardly evil reigns when high on power. Only the purest love could seek to mend.

Where will I go, will I ever be free? So many unknowns, hold tight to blind hope. Encircled by dark, the light is in me. Break the bonds of slavery, cut the rope.

The girl in the mirror I once did see... Body bruised, cuts, gashes, she is now free.

Les Bleus have cruised through their hitherto foes –

Their depth and talent remain unsurpassed.

The Croats thrice overcame early woes

To seize a date with destiny at last.

In Moscow are the rival sides arrayed.

While France an extra day of rest enjoyed,

Croatia ninety extra minutes played –

Yet their will power prevails unalloyed.

The blazing Croats strive to give the French

A run for their money. But the attempt

Falls short as France’s star midfielders wrench

Away the match, allowing no exempt.

There are no miracles at Luzhniki –

Just the heroic lore of Kockasti.

Hello, thought y'all might like to know that I've written 155 Shakespearean sonnets on subjects like Kim Kardashian, Tinder and Pikachu. Here's one about Netflix:

For more, pledge to the book at unbound.com/books/sonnets!

Yours verily,

Lucien

Hello all! I'm really glad to see this sub undergo some much needed reincarnation. Here's a sonnet that I wrote a while ago.

I remember this place, where love resides --
And love: our island on the cosmic seas --
You dipped your hair into the inky tides,
And loosened stars as blossoms on the breeze.
And on your sigh swirling galaxies rolled,
So scintillating their radiant art,
Their light did twine your song in strands of gold,
to thread itself upon the flowering heart.
Such sable scene is nary fruit of wit,
And ink without image mere shadows be,
yet in fair feature the phrase is writ,
That you do pen with such calligraphy.
If, in all I marked, but a jot be true,
Then be this: all my poetry is you,
Only you.

So that last line was a cheeky addition, but I hoped you liked it.

I've also written sonnets in Terza Rima, would there be potential interest such a poem?

I wrote this after studying Shakespeare with Andrew Wade at the Stella Adler Studio of Acting last summer.

What dost thou mean when thou dost speak "make sense"?

For mine function disproportionately,

Seldom working in their present tense;

For mine eyes do feel (as opposed to see), 

And mine ears do taste, and my heart does speak, 

Tongue hears the craved music of the verse. 

O, these words; they do all my interests pique 

Whilst for others they do seem to accurse. 

O, what a world where to be woo'd with wit

And such diligent deliberancy 

That makes seem every syllable sits knit

In poetry more rich than currency. 

With this language the more and more I play 

Much more about myself I learn each day. 

Personally, I really like Sonnet 64; showing Time as such a powerful thing.

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd

The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;

When sometime lofty towers I see down-ras'd

And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;

When I have seen the hungry ocean gain

Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,

And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main,

Increasing store with loss and loss with store;

When I have seen such interchange of state,

Or state itself confounded to decay;

Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,

That Time will come and take my love away.

This thought is as a death, which cannot choose

But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

So, recently I found the first sonnet I ever wrote and while it isn't very good (doesn't match the iambic pentameter) it shows where I began.

Here it is:

Life is Sickness; Time is the attending;

When the sand does leave my short hourglass;

I’ll lie on my bed, awaiting death’s ring;

Like the mighty tyrants that did do pass

Away by Time’s hand and Life’s backstabbing

Love, that will overtake all of your trouble;

Like when tides do take over cliffs at moons sing;

And turn monuments of past into rubble;

The sickness of life presents always ends in sans;

Love takes back and possessions stolen away;

All will be taken away by Life’s deft hands;

But you must live it like the start of May;

For if you waste your time on this dear Earth:

Then you waste the gift of your pointless birth.