William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616
How can my Muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every ****** paper to rehearse?
O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight Muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

My Poem - R.I.P. Main man.
How can I find inspiration, when your eyes
reside in my mind,
renovating my headspace.
No beauty could surpass your being,
clouding the cosmos,
searching the clouds of my soul,
For something to
relocate my focus.
As if you would ever read my musings, written upon unworthy wood pulp
But you, perfect, living forever
less perfect and untouchable in my ******
and immature words,
wishing they could be as flawless.
Let my pain go unnoticed,
for your ultimate beautiful,
immortality.