This was my first ever attempt at a sonnet. Enjoy!

My pen has never swayed the hearts of men.
It never makes them stop and think awhile,
but still I try, and try over again.
My life lacks sorrows vital for such guiles
as poetic form, a moribund art.
With future generations it will cease
to make a person ponder, weep or laugh.
Though writing is my life and my release,
I realise other paths are safer bets.
I watch them pass me by, and wonder if
the winding path I walk leads to regrets,
but still I wander blindly on. So if
or when my skin folds and my health falls ill,
I’ll be a mediocre writer still.


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