T r u t h


Point me in the right direction-

How many eyes to see my soul

And rid me of the old infection?

It starts to take its bitter toll.

Fighting: why I'm so aggressive.

Pushing up a wall, a guard.

Impossible is spelt progressive-

Moving forward seems too hard.

Can we mix without effect

And teach the children to believe?

Against the window I detect,

My thoughts are sliding through a sieve

They're disappearing much too fast

When leaving out the truth for last.


My first poem with the Elizabethan Sonnet format- more or less. I wrote this with a certain turtle in mind. Then I wondered how many people would catch it- So- Who do you think this is? And what did you think of it in general?