A Sonnet a Day

Last night was rough but I am better now,
with sleep and school and sillies in between.
Amazing that the clouds can lift, and how
remotely unimportant old things seem.
My friends are what began to lift my mood,
from checking on my status off the bat,
to goofing off and joking attitudes,
to scheming utter winning, and all that.
On top of that I got a lucky call,
first fruit that all my efforts came to bear.
I’ve crossed my fingers, hoping for it all.
By midday, yes, I simply walked on air.
     The drama doesn’t matter near so much.
     Rejection’s sting has lost some of its touch. 

I like to think I’m independent, strong,
but lately that is easily disproved.
How did I come to be so in the wrong?
I’ve never been like this, easily moved.
I’ve been walked over two times in a row,
two times within two weeks,* to tell the truth. 
How I could let this happen I don’t know.
I guess I failed to learn a thing or two.
But both of them, they seemed so nice and sweet!
Did not seem like they’d hurt me from the start.
They’d build me up with promises so neat,
then let me down ‘soon as they’d won my heart.*
     The lesson here, I guess, is not to trust,
     as “nice” guys’ pretty words all fade to dust.

*More than 2 weeks’ worth of history. He just popped back into my life at that time.

One of these guys I met at Sunday School, and the other I knew from choir back in college.  As benign and innocent and wonderful as those places are, and as terribly as the ensuing dating experiences ended, what, am I SUPPOSED to pick up guys in bars or something???

Also, see my previous post for an explanation of why I’m suddenly so uncharacteristically datey.

The problem now: I dread the summer’s rays;
the hope of sunshine is no more enough.
My last two summers, you filled up my days—
to live those months without you will be tough.

Maybe that’s my problem, I was so dead-set on distracting myself from the imminence of summer that I was blinded to reality.  Some really delayed rebound-type thing.

I don’t know what I’m gonna do.

It doesn’t feel so much like failure as reprioritizing.

I was dating, briefly, is why I first disappeared.  Now I’m getting into hot yoga, which I feel meets the same self-actualizing needs as my poetry.  Only better.

And I’ve run out of things to say.  All that ever inspired my great work was the breakup.  And I’ve said everything I can about that.  And, really, don’t think about it much these days.

Thank you to my readers, I feel truly blessed to have had an audience for so long.

I’m not saying I’m disappearing entirely.  I’ll write when I can, and share.  

I just have to give up my five-a-week commitment.  (Obviously.) 

So time does pass and I indeed move on,
in ways I never could have e’en foreseen.
I find I spend less time dwelling upon
what is, what was, and all my long-lost dreams.
I find it hard to write, I’m so at peace—
he’s losing foothold on my deepest thoughts.
It’s strange to start regaining mental ease,
just feeling peace of mind I’d long forgot.
And being truly happy, it’s a rush—
it’d been so long since I felt really “me.”
Forgetting all the things that made me blush,
yes, this is better, most definitely.
     I really thought this day would never come.
     My happiness anew has just begun. 

I like this one :)

So am I behind schedule because I hate everything I write, or do I hate everything I write because I feel so much pressure from being behind schedule?

A busy weekend up in old KC,
and I’ve survived mostly no worse for wear.
The city always does strange things to me.
I cannot feel like this just anywhere.
Indeed these days were busy and jam-packed,
with thrills, adventure, friends, and family—
but somehow in the midst of all of that,
I also got to read and watch TV.
I never sleep much when I’m up at home,
which makes the drive back here a little thrill.
I guess it’s good to know I’m not alone
no matter which end of the state I fill.
     But still I’m glad when time comes to return—
     routines and all for which my spirit yearns. 

I’ve always hated packing very much,
espec’lly when it’s just a weekend trip.
It seems it is a major effort such.
Takes too much time to plan each day’s events.
I’d hate to find myself just unprepared
to face whatever life may throw my way.
And of the weather I’m so unaware—
who knows what I may face from day to day?
My life cannot be so quickly contained
as shoving clothes into a duffel bag.
I hate to find my options so restrained.
Like, what if plans arise and I have rags?
     A first world problem, I’ll freely admit.
     But still I wish I could NOT deal with it.