I'm not a huge fan of writing about myself, especially in poetry. Certainly, I use personal experience to draw from for inspiration. So I was less excited than I might have been otherwise, when assigned in a creative writing class to construct a sonnet about myself. Nonetheless, here's the Shakespearean sonnet I produced.
I am of life: I live and breathe and think,
I feel. What else is there at all to say?
Is life a goal or daily quest? Does ink
on page define the passing of these days?
I yearn to write of all the scenes I see.
I crave to read the hearts of those who came
before and during my short life. I plea
to those who read my words: what great acclaim
is there to find in inky blood? I've tried
to speak with love and truth. What there, within,
speaks not alone of that which I've implied?
Can one relate to what I've said therein?
Yes, please look within yourself and tell
me, kindly, what inside does live and dwell?
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