Last night I went though all those old folders and books I have piled up on a shelf in my closet looking for a sonet I wrote in the 11th grade for an AP English class project. I found it. I ended up reading though a lot of old stuff.
Untitled / Undated
Alone. Alone. Insipid.
Life's icy grip grabs hold my soul. Alone.
Trapped. Trapped. Oppressed.
Controlled by needs for love, not love itself.
Fight. Fight. Withheld.
Attempts to leave are barred by purist touch.
I have no way out.
And another:
Untitled / Undated
Locked doors and faded faces lack consent.
Their thoughts are jaded; makes me diffident.
Insipid life will take its fatal hold.
And toss me out into the icy cold.
It is interesting to be able to reread this stuff seven or eight years later.
