Sonnet

Shakespeare wrote 154 of these things. I didn't realise how bloody hard they are to compose until I tried to do one. It's not just the structure but the iambic pentameter that proves to be a complete bitch.  Anyway, here's the first (and possibly only) effort:

This sonnet is just a poem with rhyme
and meter.  Yet the words that I put down
distil what I feel at this point in time.
These words I write for you they were my own
but now they are yours to discard or keep.
Each day I see a picture of your face;
sometimes you even interrupt my sleep.
Your eyes and your smile provide some solace
only bettered by a bestowed kiss
from your tender lips.  To feel your caress
would be the apogee of utter bliss.
To live life without it would be duress.
Yet this decision I must leave with you;
As these feelings might not always be true.