Poetic Recipe for Sonneteers

I was bored and made my lit poem in iambic pentameter… =)

Double, double, toil and trouble
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.
Its Shakespeare’s sonnets which make thee a fool,
For they confound, confuse, create the pool.
The pool of sadness, broken tears of men,
Who’re shatter’d by the writhing ballpoint pen.
Those fourteen lines that flee thy mind before
Thou hast a chance to think a little more.
Tis writers’ block it is, while trying it
Again and yet again in just a bit.
A bit more time thy brain implorés thee
A thought that flies through thy dead mind: Why me?
And now thy’rt almost done with sonneting
Tis time another takes the reins of king.