Sonnet V

Petrarchan verse, I tried to write,

When Milton's words I read, contrite.

The English verse then followed suit,

With sonnets four, that wrought no fruit.

And then I tried to mix them all,

Composing lines, every nightfall.

Struggling with the metre and forms,

And trying hard to stick to norms,

I seek some help, my teacher, from.

And when she spoke, she spoke a psalm.

She asked me my own words to sing.

And free myself of what has been.

Enlightenment. A halo bright.

Unfettered, I'll, my own verse, write.