pretty boy get off the stage
the show is over
it's been done and played
take off that mask and be yourself
and stop trying to be like everybody else
nobody is waiting for an encore
so why are you?
step out of character and be the you we all desire
why are you refusing?
because the stage is comfortable?
well, pretty boy, the world is not a stage
the world is streets and aisles where the acting doesn't count
nobody wants to be around a facade
people want genuine emotions and reactions
and the character you chose is not you

so pretty boy its time
take off the costume
and step into your own shoes
don't let how you think you need to be seen
decide how you act
go with your instinct
and pretty boy just be you

Dearest Ophelia:
Daughter of the murdered man
Sister of the murdered man
Lover the man who murdered your men
This is an ode to your fictitious life

Ophelia, my love, you are divine
Oceanic and loving, you are the blessed petals
Of a plucked flower in hopes of a fortune

Irrational, eccentric,
Your whims
Become the whims of others

The ickle darling
Who needs help most
Dying a death so jarring

Sinking, sinking, thinking
Into the murky depths unknown
By the Queen’s words not shown

By rue,
By rosemary,
By fennel,
By *****,
By columbine,

By regret,
By remembrance,
By foolishness, flattery, and adultery,
By love,
By faith and hope

Her judgement most bitter-hearted
Her judgement most secretive and dry
Her judgement most sweet-scented

Lost to a fit of laughter
By the maiden’s wit
Her act comes to a close
With mermaid-like prose

I think of him when its raining and the weather is gloomy and the clouds come in the surround me just like he did for a short, short while.

I imagine he is sitting somewhere in New York right now drinking some awful Gin and Tonic drink , writing something about some girl in a bar.

Or he's walking with his jacket high up over his neck day dreaming of his long lost Juliet or maybe he's scheming something more like Macbeth.

I like to think he thinks of me from time to time, the girl he sent poems to on Valentines Day, the girl he talked about loving the ocean more than life.

I know it's a bit narcissistic and a bit conceited but I like to think he know's I think of him from time to time.

When La Vie En Rose comes on and when I'm walking down the freshly rained on streets humming a tune.

When I am alone in my room contemplating how I couldn't make things work with good people or when I re read those poems I keep hidden away in my closet.

I imagine he's sitting in New York at some trendy, dive bar, making friends with the bartender telling stories about his life.

I imagine he's writing something about a girl he's currently in love with and the features that makes him swoon because one day he will give those poems to her for Valentines day as well.

I imagine that the day he finds the Juliet to his Romeo- he won't need to think of the girl whose too far away and in love with the ocean anymore.

From where do our  morals spring?
Quite an intangible conditioning,
In society, a necessary thing,
What is your philosophy of life,
or creed?  To live with no dull strife,
But who invented morality anyway?
In yet another societal day,
Who does write morality plays?

If you're my girl
You'll know
Fighting for my attention was the expectation but I brought the actual reality
They still owe me a check
But they gave some to Beck
And I'm cool with that
The rain is just here because I told it to be
Just for you
No gimmicks, just intentions with a little background
I do love a good play though
When I'm not feeling a movie
I'd rather watch a more downed to earth one
That is more artistic than Shakespeare's way with words
Even he had a difficult time explaining the beauty of plays
Hell if I can, he was the pioneer
I'm just trying to enjoy this whole idea now
But you know what I'm all about