Three.

Oh my overexcited neurons. It's better than a stupor, right?

The first one has messed up meter--the syllables are counted but the stresses are all wrong--That is on purpose. It's supposed to be dissonant. I know some people have problems with that.

Sonnet 15
I don't blame thee for thy choice ill-fated,
For my life's state is constant ruination,
And hungry misery won't be sated
'Til hope evaporates from the ashen
Crumbling gravestones of its intrepid life.
I cannot blame thee for thy lack of love,
For thy choice was not made just by thyself,
But cruel fate wrote edicts from above
That never happiness might others give
Unto my poor and foul and wretched state,
And that, for all the length that I may live,
My loneliness sad will never abate.
Thou sayest it's thy wish to be my friend,
But that was never my desired end.

Intercedo
Oh thou lovely boy, thou son of the sun,
Apollo's golden rays shine from thine eyes;
And thy glowing smile is the only one
That dazzles in the over-arching skies.

'Twas I who let my hopes run forth,
All ardent, errant, and naive;
But thou art of such brilliant worth,
What piteous light could my love give?

Oh thou lovely boy, my opposite sum;
For what thou art, I wish I could become.
Thou art the bright day, I the dismal night;
I the wretched dark, thou the wondrous light.

My hope did communion foresee,
But cruel truth knows it cannot be.
The light must always on me burn,
And thou cannot the dark endure.

Insolo
Compare me not unto the sun,
Nor call thyself a flow'r,
For such as time is measured out,
'Tis thou who marks the hour.

For when I stand in thy presence,
Thou art my lucent light;
And the drear times of thy absence
Make desolate a night.

What needs it, is to it unknown;
O'er all the sun does shine.
Too well, to me, is my need known,
But thou needs naught of mine.

But if I am the sun to be,
Then by all my power,
I love thee and will not lose thee,
Thou, my precious flower.


Aw, what the hell, here's a bonus poem. It's a few weeks old.

Catalogus
I always start thy catalog with eyes.
The warmest brown, though dark, are filled with light;
Thy smile thy happiness never belies;
Thou art grandest in character and height.

Thy face boasts features all innumerable:
Imperial thy nose, thy lips candied.
I'd catalog each pore, were I able,
Upon thy pale and flushed cheek, to read.

Thy voice is golden liquid in mine ears;
Thy fingers are as nimble and as strong
As is thy mind, with wit beyond its years
Yet glowing in its youth, for joy lifelong.

Of thy broad shoulders, what more can be said?
Or of the sinews of thy lengthy arm?
For into thee all virtues have been bred,
So passionate and courteous and warm.

And thus, thy pieces taken by each part
Are nothing to the equal of thy whole.
I ask that thou wilt take to thee my heart,
For I already love thy brilliant soul.