Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume III

I had it bad for Edna St. Vincent Millay when I was a teenager. From the first time I read "I, being born a woman and distressed," I was smitten. Of course, I wasn't satisfied to simply read Edna St. Vincent Millay, oh no. I had to emulate her. And how did I do that, you ask? By writing painfully bad sonnets, stretching the limit of iambic pentameter as far as it could go.

A smile is painted over lonely tears
Alone at night, those tears are often cried
And these are tears that wash all dreams aside
But without dreams, what's left is only fear
In time the wounds and pain will disappear
But to the scars the heart is always tied
And all the pain is hidden deep inside
Those lonely nights turns into lonely years
Now sorrow's tears fall from those lonely eyes
Just like the drops that fall in summer rain
Behind the foolish pride the pain is real
Inside the heart the mem'ries never die
And even through the happiness that's feigned
You cannot hide forever what you feel

Volume I
Volume II