Why I Am Not a Sonnet
I don’t do rhyme. I just don’t jive that way —
Care not a bit for metre, form, or rules.
I whisper wild words to the woodland fae,
And sing sea shanties when the storms starts full.
I seldom feel at ease, contained by structure;
Words spill across my phone in sudden bursts.
I am not some old white dead dude in a lecture,
Claim no dark-haired mistress, with wires cursed.
But I am a bitch. I saw it on a wall—
Graffiti scrawled in pink: “Bitches like cake,
And sonnets.” Well, perhaps that says it all.
I guess I’ve got some sweet mistakes to make.
So here I stand, no meter, rhyme, or fear—
A cake-loving bitch with a phone, my dear.
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