The following poem was actually published in our school's literary magazine, probably because it isn't the happiest of themes. I was so excited to see it in print only to discover that there was a typo in it! Arg! I now bring it to you a good old-fashioned sonnet that is typo free:
“I was abused” sliced through warm night’s silence.
Recovered from awkwardness, I said that
I still loved her, yearned for her happiness.
We chose to be married, why was she sad?
We were good for each other, and yet, she
would stay up some nights silently sobbing.
what frightened my love that she could not sleep?
Black Voice in her head, constantly calling.
That night she sliced carrots while I read and
lounged. She chopped and let the pain win. Each strike:
echo of deep scars on her arms and hands.
“Let me be happy!” she begged of the Voice.
Why not ask me? Why couldn’t she converse
with the man who loved her despite that curse?