Sonnet 1

It feels strange now to think of you, like a poem

or a frightened song towards a thin spring

where I was sad with some sad synonym

beside the toughest bastard, my Adios King.

Paradise when will I look you in the eye again?

Paradise come wrap your arms around me.

Paradise that’s why I’m alone but I can’t complain.

That’s why I’m alone with pale thought as stain.

But there’s this feeling somewhat shackled inside me,

which reaches up to move my mind, with a touch

of control, to start writing, be free,

to write, looking right back, to only write too much.

Such is me, a lousy student, who turned

round misery into something he learned.