Chapter One: The Evil Within
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, wht then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak. Yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with fale compare.
by W. Shakespeare
does anyone quite understand that besides me, i would love
something like that, there is so much meaning. I love
poetry, and i admire all my friends that can write it, they
are all so talented and i love reading there works. I yern
to hear just another stanza in there latest work, but after
a while i stop because i fear that they will get annoyed
with me asking for there poems. I wish i could write like 2
of my friends, they are so great, i can barely make
something that keeps someones attention for 3 seconds. I
think i have only ever written 1 good poem.
okay well thats it for this... ta