I love sonnets... there's something about getting the meter just right that tickles me pink Bob Inside a jar, I find him huddled deep, A shiv'ring, shaking mass of buried fear. My love has chosen to reside in here, In state of sloth, a dark and hellish sleep. He wears his purple skyline like a shroud, To shelter him from pleasure's cruel bite. He can't remember sunshine's hot delight, And woe to she who longs to stir his cloud. Sometimes, I try to draw him out with tears; Although success eludes, I must persist Til loving eyes and cheeks are red and chapped. His bashful smile is sunken to a leer, Lips trembling with grief and cowardice. He speaks; my skin is torn apart by tacks.