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Two people, both alike in their spirit,
but distinct on the outside it would seem;
when their paths cross they regard each other,
making judgements only on what they see.
Judgements on beauty and social status,
judgements on wealth and even worthiness;
with all these beliefs coming together
to form in their mind attraction or fear.
And with that first feeling they then react,
instantly making a friend or a foe,
but the conclusion they have quickly reached,
is not one based on facts or sacred truth;
for the true beauty and worth of us all
is only seen, through a view from the heart.
I've always enjoyed the prologue from Romeo and Juliet, so I started writing this poem loosely based on the same poetic structure that Shakespeare used.
I long to write
Beautiful things
Like Shakespeare
And elegant ballgowns
Something with more meaning
Then simply feeling down

I long to write
Of romeo and Juliet
Symbolic and deeper then most see
Oh thou arent very good with writing

I long to write
Like egar allen poe
Or any inspiration i claim to love
But instead i write of the dead things
That roam through my mind stirring

Pound pound pounding
My mind is  constantly aching
She's but a young child
Cry cry crying
For attention she seeks but it keeps dying

Plays and music will not be wrote
Of the things i write
For they are not artistic
They are but a jumbled mess
Never knowing where to place
Each
Line or
Stanza

Now I'm rambling
On and on and on
She goes sad and chaotic
Whispering obscenities
And screaming repetitive words and pleas

I adore the poems and songs
That at face value seem
Like they are about love for another
When truly they ring about darkness

Oh sweet child
Your love keeps thy so warm
But it's breaking into a storm
I watch you try to sleep
Why do you weep?
Dost thou not realize thy beauty?
Stab thy heart into shreds
For i cannot breath without the
But i cannot smile when thy fills my blood with led

Sweet little girl
You have made no sense
Get on your knees and repent
For you will never be

Somebody
My head was filled with so very mamy words this morning i had to get them all out
Star BG Nov 30
The fool, doth think he’s wise,
strutting around
acting inside his own reality.  
Moving in playful style,
as others think he brainless be.

While wise man, doth think he fool,  
swaggering under thesis
of living his own truths.
Dreaming grandly
with acts in mind like fool
few rarely see.
Inspired by
William Shakespeare who said. “ The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.
Rebecca Nov 29
We are afraid that there is nothing.
We are afraid that there is something beyond, even we cannot know it and so squash it into a box.
We are afraid that cats will scratch out our eyes and someone will release a wild fox into the house letting it scream intensely like the sound of torture.
We are afraid of the deep, dark ocean, that it will eat us whole and a megalodon will slow motion leap from the deep to swallow us in totality and to be followed by a ship wrecking kraken that will cover an island and make us pay for our sins.
We are afraid of ***, that he is mad, that he is angry, that he does not approve, that he isn't really there, that he doesn't have a plan for us, that he gave up on us and our disgusting lives and terrible choices that bring ultimate self-destruction.
We are afraid of spiders.
We are afraid of the house setting alight whilst nobody is home and the neighbours hate us so much they stand in their front gardens and watch it burn and only then calling the fire brigade when ash starts to affect their own space, their own environment, and they'll complain till the cows come home about "what an inconvenience all this has been", how it has made them late, how the fire engine has blocked off the road so Saturday shopping will have to wait a bit longer. And they hate us, they hate us, they hate us.
Their dog ***** in our garden. It ***** on our grave.
Luke Kennard, a brilliant poet and lecturer on creative writing, was a guest speaker in my class today. We were asked to write a poem inspired by Jennifer Knox's "We are afraid" and list our fears but make them deeply personal, unique and honest with a continuous flow. Focusing on Shakespeare's Fool character and how they reveal universal and personal truths, often to unpopular opinion or embarrassment.
Savannah Nov 28
Must you tug at my heartstrings?
daughter of Prospero and lover of Ferdinand.

While I lie awake before the placid ceiling,
awaiting the inevitable chime that signals morning's sober arrival,

Must you come to prance about my mind as always?

A part of me,
it begs that I cling to the idea that we could be so much more.
Just like before,
the velvet curtains had come crashing down prematurely.

When we had once waltzed in tandem,
with all that had come to be as our mere prologue.
It is as Shakespeare himself had spoken into his play-writing prose, the same one that had inspired your name,

“when I waked, I cried to dream again.”


You were the dream from which I begged I would not wake.
Of course.
I eventually would have to.
It feels as if I am reenacting
one of Shakespeare’s plays
only,
it’s just me on the stage.
Rebecca Nov 18
When I die, I hope it is like my dreams.
In that way, death would not be so fearful,
A remedy for my thoughts when I sleep.
In return, I dream of my death by this
Stuff that so haunts my dreams. To be scorns of
Time and its aching length, calamity
Of so long life. Yet we so dread something
After death, a no-mans land from where no
One shall return – this makes us bear our ills.
We fight. We suffer. We are wounded, all.
So we are cowards that do fear our deaths,
For we fear the unknown, those we know not.
Instead we dream that dying is dreaming,
To sooth our conscience and minds from unreeling.
After a close reading of Hamlet's 'To be, or not to be', I chose elements of it to base this sonnet on as a response and a helpful tool to understand part of its meaning a little better.
It’s a fallacy, ‘to be or not to be’
actors strutting and pouting across
a stage, their black shoes burning
holes into the painted wood,

Their words lacking conviction
each action, merely an action,
but it’s what they have to work with
that holds the key, he secret ecstasy,
The escape route from ****

Knowing that, given the choice,
‘to be’ is not where the scales will
settle. We are wanderers clutching
at straws of adventures, but we will
pick the short one, eventually

Where then do we go? When there is
no ladder made of gold to climb.
no pearly gates nor a wizardly,
kindly face

‘The play’s the thing’
wherein we catch
the conscious of
ourselves
Gabrielle Isa Nov 12
"Do not disappoint me"
My father says...

...I will try my best not to;
I will not weep when they place the veil on my head
I will not tremble when they place my hand in his.
I will not scream on my wedding night;
I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

I will give him a full household
Yet he will never be content.
But I have promised my father;
So when bruises litter my body
And my mother weeps at the sight of me
I will not shed a single tear.

I will fight;
For every blow, I will be cunning
For every strike laid upon me
I will be three times as cruel.
In this battle for my sanity
I will give all I have and then some;
I have vowed that if he tries to make life ****,
Then I will be his devil.

I will not let him **** me;
Not like they did my sisters.
No; I am no a small candle,
I am full of sound and fury
And when they tell my tale
It will signify something.

And before they lay my body
In this cold earth, where all great women go;
As my husband swears I am a demon
With blood dripping from his wounded eye
And bruises on his beaten body,
I will tell my father,
Right before he kills me
"Do not disappoint me"
And he won't...

...He will not weep when they place the shroud on my head
He will not tremble when they place me in my grave
He will not scream out and mourn
Long into the night, like his brethren.
He will refuse to give me the satisfaction.
Just something that came to me after reading some Child Bride stories, watching a few documentaries and reading some fiction books.
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