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Pasquino Jun 22
“And I’m almost there– I’m almost there”
wouldn’t it be a shame if they died then,
wouldn’t it be perfect for the script
if they collapsed without air or prayer?

“But, I feel some pain– I feel some pain”
wouldn’t it be a shame if it swelled then,
wouldn’t it be perfect if the dagger slayed
and they cried out in the pouring rain?

Oh, dear architect– dear architect
what an odd and sad masque you play.
Your poetry and lonely sights
have brought on your own despair.
What is me?
Is it me who speaks or a societal version of me?
What is me?
What constitutes me?
What is behind this skin of pathetic falseness?
Is there a possibility of finding oneness?
Why does this heart thump in vain?
Is there nothing left other than pain?
What is this pain?
Is it really mine?

Is there a monster lurking inside that's directing this parody?
Or was there a monster all along acting in this tragedy?
Do I ever speak my mind? Or soul? Or anything that is remotely me?
What is me?

Is it all about a stage play of emptiness?
Who is the playwright?
What will the playwright get from inducing so much pain in the story?
Where is the drama, the movement, the charm, the symphony?
Who's watching this play?
Why is the audience dead?
Will no one buy tickets to see this dread?
Alice Lovey Apr 2018
I don't want to lose you to those dark nights
When the light
is just right
to begin your performance of just you

I know how it feels, it's happened to me too
No value
In rendezvous
It's a curtain call, I say my "adieu"

Yeah, you hurt me pretty badly
But I knew, we agreed,
This would never be easy
And it kills you,
It tears you apart
To know you've caused this damage
Right from the start

And it never goes
It never goes

Those bright days,
Sunshine rays
And neon shades
With me, with you,
One truth:
It's possible to feel this good again.

Those paling scars,
Both of ours,
Newborn bright stars
With me, with you,
One truth:
It's possible to have this gone again.

And it never goes
It never goes

I don't want to lose you to those dark nights
Black, once white
In the moonlight
Because there was never a stage, yet you wrote playwright

And it never goes
It never goes

A scene with me, a scene with you,
One truth:
It's possible to never know.
Suicidal loved ones.
storm siren Oct 2016
"Do not judge them,"
She whispered softly,
"You may be old,
But you have yet to live as well."

And they stared at her,
For the first time in decades,
With eyes wide with wonder.
"But I have seen so many things,
I am certain I know more."

"No,"
Smiled the crone,
Orange eyes twinkling like starlight.
"You know what you know for yourself,
And yourself alone. Your wisdom is yours."

"Shouldn't I make my wisdom theirs as well?"
Cried the playwright.
"They're making too many mistakes, I have to fix it."

And still, the crone continued to smile.
"Their mistakes are theirs to make."
She reached out and placed a hand upon the playwrights' paper.
"Just as your wisdom is yours, their experiences are theirs, and just as valid as yours."
She took the quill from the playwright, and tucked the crow's feather in her hair.
"Allow them to grow without your bias."

"But I don't approve--"
The crone gave the playwright a bright smile,
Though her eyes were dark,
Which ultimately shut them up.

"Your place is not to judge. It is to nurture. It is to guide."
She said softly, though her tone was much more assertive.

"Then let me guide,"
The playwright began.

"There is a vast divide between guidance and control."
The vision of her shimmered, and she took a step back.

"I don't understand."
The playwright held their head in their hands, knuckles white while gripped onto curls.

"And you will not understand until you yourself live."
The old crone cooed, before her image blew away in soft red wind.

And there the playwright was left,
A half written letter filled with judgment and smudged ink,
And no quill to finish it with.
They fell back into their chair,
Glaring at their writing desk.

Whether or not the crone was right or wrong,
They still didn't get their quill back.
Just a thought.
William Shakespeare - baptized in 26 April 1564, was an English poet, playwright and actor, widely considered as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist. He is often called England's national poet and the "Bard of Avon".

His extant works, including some collaboration, consist of about 38 plays, 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, two epitaphs on a man named John Combe, one epitaph on Elias James, and several other poems. His plays have been translated into every major living language and are performed more often than those of any other playwright.

If you want to learn and know more about William Shakespeare’s bio, history and best works, please go visit http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare


One of the best poems of William Shakespeare:

Carpe Diem

O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear! your true-love's coming
That can sing both high and low;
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journey's end in lovers' meeting--
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty,--
Then come kiss me, Sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

— The End —