this is just an exercise, no actual sonnet was written:

when I procrastinate, my muse, let’s call
her Liza for the sake of argument,
badgers me like a boubous boiling up
under my metaphorical skin – which
is very similar to corporeal
skin, but itches via dissimilar
senses . . . she castigates me now for this
strange digression into metaphysics,
but it’s all sound and fury between this
ear and that. It niggles, though, at my soul,
to be behind the timeline I myself
declared by gauntlet, self-challenge leveled
whether declared or silent or slapped loud
against the silence of virtual Cloud.

copyright 2022 DM Pitchford