Sometimes, when I’m bored or sick, I write overly dramatic sonnets to keep myself busy. They’re not the best quality of writing, but that’s not really the point. It’s a fun way to make use of time when there’s nothing else to do. This is one such poem:
On winter’s nights, or even during light
I often find myself a host for pain—
a virus of what seems immortal might
that with each breath will cause my soul to wane.
On days like these, I bundle ‘gainst the cold
more for the sake of show than for my own,
and as my heart yearns for all days of old,
I curl in pain and feel my stomach groan.
I feel the hammer pounding at my skull—
a never-ending out-of-tune lament
sung for my happy life that’s now turned dull,
so lying still, in pain, my days are spent.
And so I weather yet another day,
grateful that at least on Earth I’ll stay.