I do not have anything exciting to say today (haven't visited any foreign countries in the last week), and am not ready to post a book review. So how about some lovely poetry? This is the sonnet I wrote in Creative Writing last semester. I thought writing a sonnet would be hard, and it was, but it was more fun and easier than I originally believed it'd be.
My roomate has a forest in her room,
tons of plants that sway, hang and respirate.
Gnats will bring a slender plant to its doom;
the tiny creatures have planted its fate.
The sick stalk now sits in a paper bag,
awaiting the young doctor's prognosis.
Its complaints go unheard and its leaves sag;
my friend's anger, like bubbles, starts to fizz.
I watch all this with humor from my perch,
amazed at the power the small gnats hold,
when a random, clanging thouht makes me lurch,
its clarity ringing like a bell tolled.
I'm sick, not from gnats, but from hidden sin,
and who will cure me and the rest of men?
Is anyone brave enough to admit they write poetry? I wish I wrote it more often; it can be so beautiful.