More of Shakespeare's Sonnets
By Fox-Trot-9

Prologue: To Timid Poets 3

But sonnet-writing's such a taxing try,
Just thee and silence wasting progress thine,
Just thee, the chair and pupil pen in thy
Fist, brooding every fleeting seemless line.
To write a sonnet taketh too much time,
That you'll exceed a saint's control severe
To wait for words that come but once per rhyme,
Awaiting for salvation to appear.
And yet, a poet by this weary strain
Of thought, who shuns the outer world of space,
Will find a world beyond with every gain
Within your reach, your lines evoking grace.
      A poet, thus, becomes his own creator,
      A bit of God in us that will empower.

(To be continued...)

A/N 1: It will get better... I hope. So please comment, or at least tell me why it sucks. Any criticism is better than none at all.

A/N 2: I think I was a bit too harsh on myself when I first posted this... ( O_O )