Today I read Claude McKay's sonnets. The Harlem Renaissance poet.

Then I was feeling blue. So I wrote one (a sonnet with no attention to stresses at all):

My friends, this is such a horrible time

of year. I think I do hate Thanksgiving.

Nothing decent to celebrate, and I’m

just here, writing, not planning on leaving

to see anyone, because they’re having

their own holidays with their loved ones, look

I’m not complaining, I’ll keep believing

some thing better is coming and I’ll cook

some rice and beans and surf around Facebook

look at pics and all the late night poses;

wait, that’s not my good side, no wait I shook

a bit (by the way I don’t like roses).

So I just wrote my first sonnet alone.

I’ll still come over, just call my cell phone.

And then someone just called me, so I am going out. Ah, bad unrevised poetry. The best!

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