A friend of mine on WeBook invited me to join her poetry project, which she entitled “I Am Not A Poet”. The members are writers of decent quality who make no pretensions of being poets. This, for anyone who is not a WeBook member, is a refreshing change from some extremely talentless writers who take their poems far too seriously.
(I’m not being mean! Well, okay … I am. However, if you don’t believe me, go sign up and sift through the poetry. My Mistress Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun is good poetry. My Love is Like a Red Red Rose is good poetry. I miss u Cus ur Not Hear is not.)
At any rate, here is my attempt at poetry. I haven’t written poetry since junior high school, back in the 1980s, so I beg forgiveness that I forgot there should be three stanzas and the ending. I am not a poet.
A (Too Short) Sonnet by Marie Beausoleil
I wonder when I close my eyes at night
If all my sins and scarlet lies were told,
If all I hid were brought into the light,
And all that I had stopped were to unfold,
Would I then see the horror in their eyes?
And would the doors around me seem to close
And shut me out? A loving voice belies
The truth, a tale that no one truly knows.
I die inside each day I silent live
And seek a peace no living soul can give.
