I’m Slave to Fourteen Lines of Compromise – Sonnet Forty-One

In scars of undiscovered hate my time  
Has found its clouded heart’s forever place.  
Barb-wired in my too consistent rhyme,  
My words constricted in this metered space.  

A year of subtle sex in frilly skirts,  
When what I need is gutter level fucks.  
A year of twisted phrasings circle jerks,  
When what I need is facial soaking plucks.  
 
I know that poetry is shaded lines  
Of words that never mean the things they say.  
But how can measured words be so defined,  
If no one’s taking measures anyway?  
 
Like servant to a dog whose master lies,  
I’m slave to fourteen lines of compromise.