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I made a void.

I collected my miseries.

I collected my pain.

I collected my melancholy.

And I threw it away.

I made a void.

I brushed away the dirt.

I brushed away the sand.

I brushed away the dust.

And it all flew away.

When I realized,

My golden tongue was not a gold,

Sold by a seller who sells to the dying.

I realized my golden tongue,

Did not posses enchantments,

Nor did it posses charms,

Nor did it posses spells.

I am a mere child, who enjoys the union,

Of the pen and the page.

I am a mere child, and I do apologize,

For not being endowed,

With the power of the magician,

Who leaves his audience,

With a little less air.

To further elucidate:

I am sonnet 29, by the great Shakespeare,

Without the turn,

Or the great.