Not A Sonnet Is

Not A Sonnet When I was a child I used in winters when windows had frost on the inside too, paint picture of faces that slowly thawed as the morning progress to noon. Moody drawings and after some time I only drew eyes and saw them cry. Mother thought I was morbid I walked around in a big black shawl put flour on my face to look pale, I was home from school had tuberculosis and was of delicate disposition. From the window I saw other children playing snowball wars, and thought if i go down there and join them they will all be infected and die in the most horrible way. When not doing this I read a lot of books and some poetry I disliked because it was too boastful and nationalistic, had a little country feel, having read Russian literature I was discerning; cured now I was allowed back to school again and since I was not a prodigy preferred snowball wars.