Light of my life,
The slings and arrows
Of outrageous fortune
Bloom a rose
In the deeps of my heart.

And so I came forth
But could not behold the stars.
The slings and arrows,
They trespassed upon my thoughts.

And I cried that I came
To this great stage of fools,
But it echoed loudly within me
Because I am hollow at the core.

That outward existence which conforms,
This inward life which questions
Confusion now hath made his masterpiece of.  

I don't exactly know
What I mean by that,
But I mean it.

I collect bones
the kind that reside in attics and closets,
gathering dust.
The kind that are only ever spoken of
between pages like these,
addressed to no one in particular
but everyone at once.
That "Dear Diary",
who are you?
and why are you following me?
Perhaps were just really lonely.
After all,
we live as we dream,
alone together.
©