The piercing light from artificial stars
Which motionless this body now contains
The bright red rays that form my prison bars
I close my eyes yet brightness still remains.

I cannot move, cannot go forth nor back, 
I itch, impatient, waiting for release
To no avail, I’m stuck, can’t move, this lack
Of motion’s tedious and there’s no ease.

As finally one by one each vicious light
Does fade and shackle after shackle break
The moment I can move it feels like flight
I hear the wind, never felt more awake.

But all the peace and freedom now means naught
Without the lessons which through torture taught.

Artificial Stars

*beat*
http://www.rappers.in/de/beat-189856.html

*lyrics*
You see an old dusty page and you ask what has remained
Of all the countless verses of love, trials and pain.
Well, the truth is, to be ruthless, there never has been more
Than antiquated notions in an antiquated form.
So let’s be honest while we’re on it
and look again at the sonnet
Fourteen lines in rhymes
Like everyone’s done it
Shakespearean experience
Of elegance that won it
A spot in my heart
Where it got its part
And took the leading role
As channel of my art.

But after 150 pieces or maybe let it be half
Variety decreases with each same old paragraph
And while there’s more than on earth
To nourish flourishing verse
These formalities are worse-
ning to look like a curse.
And here with words I am fumbling
And without heavenly tricks
It seems like everyone’s struggling
With number seventy six.

Look at grandpa’s recipe: two quatrains painting a picture
Spice it up with a volta to obtain a nice mixture
All coupled with a couplet synthetic as can be
Twenty syllable solutions for the reader to agree
The speaker condenses wisdom maintaining a calm composure
Carefully crafting couplets conveying convenient closure.
Be it sweet as it may this icing on the cake deceives
And is leading away from reality into make believe.

The world’s still turning after fourteen of your lines
Your love is not eternal cause you seal it with a rhyme.
So what remains is a poet poetically disappointed
Unable to write words in the way that he once enjoyed it.
I will stop using told words, all used and old
I will stop selling second hand what's already sold
For if like grandpa I start dressing old words anew
I’m not writing for me at best I’m writing for you

I am a travelling talesman, lost in a dead end
To unravel my path I need a helping hand
As I spent all of my power on what I used to enjoy
I need ten dollars now to flip a singular coin
And introduce a little anarchy 
To finally be able to break free
And now I simply want to see 
If I pull through what can become of me

If you follow old idols too long to what can you truly amount
So I will ditch the form of the sonnet to double my syllable count
Now will you still be around? Yeah, well I guess I'll find out
How many still listen when I will be spittin in free-verse and fully unbound
With universally transferable skills I'm well-versed still all around
A fever ignited by sick rhythm's burning my lyric prison to the ground
Replacing my pentameter with a harder beat and the new inspiration I found,
Discovering new lands now as a new man my fate has turned around.

Another Dance

Poetry about longing, nightmares and insanity, mostly expressed in the fine form of Shakespearean sonnets

Allan E. Gory