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?
