The Sonnet I’ve Become

I tried to write a sonnet, but I failed
Ironically, the words were red as blood
The page was like a victim I’d assailed
All covered with my words, like solemn crud
I used to think that purity was white
That poetry, like life, was pure as well
But then I tried to live and tried to write
And there I found contaminants, and Hell
The words I choose contaminate the page
They pulse, they flow, they turn, and then they stain
I try to make them justify my rage
My words are red as blood and filled with pain
I hate my life; I hate this little song
They’re technically correct, but god! They’re wrong!