I can write for hours at a time,
I may need to buy a new pen every new page,
But my only crime
Is that no one understands what's on my stage.

I can describe my emotions in the deepest of rhymes,
Speak my heart out with diction
That to so many ears, the rhythms don't turn to chimes,
And in the end the readers' thoughts are full of friction.

I was told to trust in them,
To write simplicities with deeper emotion,
But my words only really stem
A lack of devotion.

Words to me are like romantic affairs,
They won't always go well,
Some together make magical pairs,
But without meaning, not everyone can tell.

So what is it to write a sonnet;
To write a story with diction that hides the secrets
That, I as the author, am trying to write,
Could I not write while being discrete
Or will my writing fall and be gone in this society, like a fallen forgotten comet?

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