Shakespeare, I'm writing you an emo poem.

Tyler cuts his wrists and plays piano 'cause he's so depressed.
You can tell it's not an exorcism though, since you can hear his lisp.

I don't play piano anymore (the ivories no longer tickle my fancy)
and I never really cut,
unless you count the symmetry,
or lack of it;
besides, I've always had a father.

Do you believe in demons, bard?
I'm not familiar enough with your works to know;
English didn't interest me much beyond the grammar.
Maybe that's a possession in itself, or an obsession at least,
since I don't think I could do the Devil justice--
and I'm none to bring light from darkness.

Do golden glittered gowns prove earnings or entitlement?
A different wealth perhaps, the philosopher kings of old (Do you know of those? I can't imagine otherwise, such a trove of inspiration).
I would not hold it against you if you didn't;
your productions sold for pennies,
and in the very least you were a man (or so the rumor goes).

All facades aside, I would inquire about purpose.
Were you satisfied with life? Were you not?
Did you desire a longer lease?
Would you say I should?
My outward walls are painted very gaily,
gayer than yours in all likelihood, or my boyfriend would say as much.
(I can't speak for the fashion of the times.)
Yet when I suffer loss, it seems absolute, one end and the other.
Do you approve of modern day's catharsis?

I expect a proper follow-up.