an original, rule-breaking sonnet from school:
(14 lines/1o syllables in each line and a halfhearted and pathetic attempt at iambic pentameter)
The funny thing is that I don't agree
With anything at all you say to me.
You smile and go on like nothing is wrong,
But your voice sounds like an out-of-tune song.
You know, if you want to stop by my "place,"
You'd realize your works are lacking a base.
Pause when you get to the end of most lines
and you'll find poems in emerald mines.
Your thoughts are clichéd like a dusty fringe
And they way you explain them makes me cringe.
It's silly how you think that you're always right,
As if you have some amazing foresight.
And even though you'll never read my clue,
The ironic thing is: this is for you.
(Poetry Friday roundup here.)