Back by what I'm sure was demand, or at least my imagination of one. I bring my seventh sonnet.
In case any reader is wondering (if there is any reader, for my vanity) there will be other forms of poetry soon, but we all need to practice to become perfect. Soon there will be some verity.
Bite, into the skin like the snake you are
Not caring for race, religion other
Things are not important you’d just rather
Take a piece of me without any care
For what you drain, blood, life in open air
Like the monster tyrant, deadly wielder
Open your jaw over my slight finger,
And take all that is mine never to share.
Knave, you are no snake not even deadly
But a pain in my side no less, deeper
Marks were given by your double remedy,
Far more scary than thee, in my finger.
Perhaps you are not the snake after all
You are only my own umbrella