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.

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!

Tell my favourite teacher that I'm still her darling boy
who used to look up to the rainy sky, miss home and cry
still as cunning and playful but now prose and poetry are the toy
and if she saw me play she would wonder and sigh
at that boy who made everything he touched filthy
for I find crisp clean pages and on them throw mud of words
who's still of indifference, condemned and guilty
Her little boy whose fascination was chasing butterflies and birds
tell my teacher I'm still her child, still not biting my tongue
but regurgitating all the bitter truth the world detests
busting in rage at hypocrisy and puffing pride out my lungs
I'm still bearing the eminent enmity my bluntness begets
tell her I'm still firmly clinging to the slipping dreams she instilled
barely floating, with waves of reality attempting to drown my talent and have her killed
*tell her I'm still doing pieces out of my daily struggles and torments
and posting them on social media, I'm that brave
even attempting to do double Shakespearean sonnets
writing about my illusive dreams and the unreachable I crave
someone tell my favourite teacher that I'm still her son
going against the currents of injustice instead of flowing with the river
taking the bull by his horns, doing whatever I can
yet sometimes giving in to detestable ways,corroding my liver
tell Victorious that I'm still impossible to comprehend
loving fictional writings while holding my classwork in contempt
why loath lectures,but love learning,why not pretend?
not even university education could be exempt
I think about my teacher everyday,she's still my Mama
but I hardly talk to her for my life's preoccupied with karma's drama

O noble muse, where perched thou singing?
And in what ear, upon what summer's day?
When our bard begot this, his least good play?
Your graces to some other were bringing,
To prose and verse with beauty adorned;
For, on sitting down to read this once again,
I see well why this one is scarce performed:
For to read it causes me less joy than pain.
My worthy bard, it is as I did fear:
Of all your plays of ******* and kings equal,
There have been none as good or fine as Lear!
What madness prompted you to try a sequel?
An orchard of fine works you have begotten,
But of your tragic fruit this one is rotten.

You are like that of a blazing ember,
bright as the sun, as temperamental,
as an uncontrollable summer fire.
The flame, the spirit, resides in your eyes.
The inferno of your golden locks burn
a home in my perishing mortal heart.
My love is so deep, I cannot return
to a time when you were not my sweetheart.
My dear, you are as wild as the sea,
as powerful as a queen on her throne,
if only you could behold what I see,
these are mere words, but it is all I own.
You are my fire-heart, my golden girl.
You are my beacon of light in the dark.

Enamored of the possible, and racing,
  Through a winding maze of endless choices,  
  Daunted by the obstacles we're facing, and 
  Dizzied by the clamor's many voices,

Shackled by a heavy chain of causes,
  Binding us to all we've ever known,
  The many paths before us give us pause, as
  We struggle to define which are our own,

Within a world that's not of our own making
    We anxiously await the day we'll find,
    A journey worthy of our undertaking, so
    That purpose in our lives may be defined, but
    
Perhaps our fate condemns us all to wander, and
       Our lives are merely mysteries to ponder