I am a fool, who loves to write,
No compulsions, the mood is light.
Flitting between, one form and the other,
Tinkering on the surface, never digging further.
I am a fool, who toils to write,
The mood is sombre- filled with plight.
Contorting to fit, in the given form,
I struggle and suffer, to break from the norm.
No more a fool, I dare to write,
The mood is jubilant- I've won the fight.
Mastering a form, churning sonnets at will,
To rise like a phoenix, was a journey uphill.
Up and onward, I should have turned pro- on the way to be the best,
Another 'sonnet', I shoot myself in the foot- back to the fool's quest.
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