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Marjani Jun 2016
Backstage
Bodies in costumes
Act 1 scene 3
I see the Shakespeare in me
Act 2 scene 7
The best of them all
This is where the young actress begins to wow them all
She sings
She dances
She acts with her heart
She continues until the end of her part...
Act 3 scene 1
He begins to dance the stage
Allowing his words to speak milifluously
Act 4 scene 6
Macbeth and blood shed
Act 7 scene 7
Back stage there they are ....increased sincerity....and pools of blood...small endings to tie up the loose ends
Act 7 scene 8
The lights dim..
The once pristine voice of the woman isnt heard again...all you shall hear is him and her loving in the distance
Breeze-Mist Jun 2016
My poet, I'm flattered by your attention
But your comments are rather misguided
You are mistaken about my condition
I truly wish your words could be abided
I'm not always quite this fair and gentle
And I'm not, by any means, eternal
Truthfully, sometimes I think I'm mental
Viewed closely, most previous notions fall
I'm not a fair day, I'm a hurricane
Inside my mind, flowers don't stand a chance
I'm sorry if my response gives you pain
But if you find that you still want to dance
I, too, would like to turn another page
And see if we share scenes in this world's stage
“Doubt thou the stars are fire,
  Doubt that the sun doth move,
  Doubt truth to be a liar,
  But never doubt I love,"
He wrote.

"Never doubt," she whispered
As her foot hovered over the fallen tree.
Tentative and cautious she treads,
As if to make up for her blind trust
She had in his words.
"Never doubt."

Words, words, words, words.

"Never doubt," she choked
While her eyes hungrily stared at the water below.
To die, to sleep.
To drown, to float.
"Never doubt."

"I love I love I love I love," she sings
Sobbing.

She is here.
She is standing on the fallen tree over the water,
Flowers in hand,
Melodies in mind,
Her choice in her throat.

"Not to be."

She is there.
Her self
Fell in the weeping brooke,
      her cloathes spread wide,
And Mermaid-like, a while they bore her up,
Which time she chaunted
snatches of old tunes,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature Natiue, and indued
Unto that Element but long it could not be,
Till that her garments,
heavy with her drink,
Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay,
To muddy death.

Now tell me, my dear prince,
Would you call that "love?"
Many of these lines are appropriated from Shakespeare's "Hamlet." No plagiarism intended.
Liz May 2016
I think it's time
For me to close my eyes
And slip into the sleep
That I've always desired.

I think it's time
To say goodbye
To everything I've grown to know
And everything I'll have to let go.

I think it's time
To find out
Once and for all
What dreams may come.
Ignatius Hosiana May 2016
She did it in the precious name of the king
who couldn't even bend past his bloated belly
she respectfully kissed his diamond ruby ring
and not because he could fly her to Paris or Deli
she urgently did it to **** the biting itch upon his back
using her ***** nails, with servants' muck at the back of her palm
for she saw the struggling king stiff stuck
believe it when she says she actually meant no harm
oblivious of the consequence of slave hands on royal skin
acting in the name of kindness to a caring crown
if only she'd known she was kicking a dragon's sheen
never could she at any moment wear this beautiful frown
for her next of keen mourn her feeble neck despondent in the noose
of a ravenous and thick expensive rope awaiting his use
Àŧùl May 2016
Shakespeare, I know not who he is.
But they term him one of the greatest,
They say he was a poet & a playwright.

William, I surely know of him not.
But they often name him the greatest,
He was a poet Stratford-upon-Avon born.

Anne Hathaway, was elder to him.
But still they both exchanged vows,
They say she was over 7 years older.

Hathaway, she had even outlived him.
But I wonder how she survived alone,
They say she had three kids from him.

I think the love for the remaining two kids kept her alive.
My HP Poem #1074
©Atul Kaushal
Gracie Knoll May 2016
Love, deep, pure, irresistible and kind
There is nothing weak about it

It is stronger than any force of man
It is the greatest kind of magic
It is the weapon to defeat death

And the power bestowed upon even those most unworthy of possessing it
It is possessed of powers to bring happiness that no drink, not even the strongest wine can give you.
This is love.

It is not the polite affection of a man and woman strolling through the park.
'Tis not the simple kiss that has no pleasure
This is not a lukewarm relationship
It is pain
That you would rather die than see the one you love hurt

This is not a whitewashed kind of love that brings only worldly things
This is unearthly and unforeseen
Beyond all our hopes and dreams.
This is more even than one of Shakespeare's plays
Because it is real!
This is a passionate kiss between two lovers
This is love.
Ignatius Hosiana May 2016
Maybe the dawn may someday cease to burn
maybe the moon might one day cease to glow
maybe my ulcer will someday cease to churn
Or bamboo might get too stunted to grow
maybe the stars may end up falling from space
maybe mountains will someday crumble and sink
maybe my footprints might fade and be hard to trace
maybe roses might someday lose their scent and rather stink
maybe donkeys and ***** might stop to bray
and chameleons surrender their camouflage
maybe the nuns and monks will cease to pray
maybe death may hesitate to collect my fuselage
But the love that boils in my heart will forever erupt
cause I'm quite certain even fate is too inspired to interrupt
Ignatius Hosiana May 2016
I was the joke that was never funny
the roaring lion who was never feared
the natural sweet that was never honey
smooth and straight road never veered
I was the big and deep heart that never healed
the thick deep green leaf that was never real
the combined harvester that never tilled
the Ocean of warm passion but none would feel
I was the happy smile clambered with tendrils of melancholy
the beautiful dawn burning orange never loved
the philosophical twit whose melodies were folly
a big waxed feather to a bird devoured fried and served
the crowded vacuum, everything and nothing
the limpid river violently flowing,I was anything but something
Francie Lynch Apr 2016
They say the Bard's been dead four hundred years;
But each time I attend Stratford,
He struts upon the stage,
Fretting about our human condition,
Our foibles and grandness,
Like a parent,
In the wings.

Dead four hundred years?
Don't believe it for a second!
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