You laugh because of the jokes I tell, but
I laugh because if my thoughts linger I may never laugh again.
So this is how I hide

I hide in my humor
In every joke
In every chuckle
Every time I poke fun
I'm hiding
I'm hiding how I think
How I feel
How I can't stand myself
The way I look
The way I talk
I'm hiding
On Shakespeare's stage
I play the role of a clown
Hiding tears
Hiding my fears
My make up is camouflage
Hidden by white paint and a red nose
Convincing others I'm fine,
I laugh, I joke
I hide.

I fear you. I do.
I fear my fascination with you.
I pull away like the planets press against their rings around the sun,
Reaching for the stillness of the dark beyond
But bound by dazzling heat and light.
Sometimes I see my death in your eyes
Like a moth sees its immolation in the filaments of a lightbulb
But sacrifices life to be
For a moment
Finally warm.

I trust you
As much as one can trust something wild:
I understand
That to touch you might leave
Scars on my hands,
But I think that they would be scars
I would cherish in my later years
And trace among the creases of age
As proof that I had lived without regret.

It is not the heat I fear,
In truth
It is the cold.
It is the passing
Of something bright
Close beside me and then
Beyond
Off into the world
Where I may not follow.

It is the blindness that always comes
When I look away from a brilliant light
And am for a moment paralyzed
By the cold certainty that I will never see again:

I would leave you with something to remember me by,
Some love that refuses to fall away no matter the storm,
No matter the chaos of your fire.
Something quiet and constant
And more enduring than I am.

For

I fear not what you are
But what you aren't
Which, like black water,
Will rush in to fill the void
Once you have gone.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Basically I'm saying, babe, you're hot.  You know its funny, I adore Shakespeare but i could not handle writing like him. All proper and British and modern... I'm too old fashioned for his tastes.

Let's think about it. Shakespeare was a progressive of his days; making words, analogies, that are timeless to this day.

What am I using?

Old tricks of the old writers to quell my taste for old art. Gods knows I describe everything as if I were Dickens, all elongated and profoundly bloated in the most beautiful and adoring way.

But back to where I was. You.

This sonnet is for you. I did promise one this night, did I not? In my head I did, at least. Oh dear, this'll be a surprise in the morning. But at least it is a surprise just for you.

I at least hinted of a sonnet, a sonnet for you, telling of you and our love and how it makes me feel. So here we must go.

You are the moonshine to my midnight, the angel to my demons.

Too much? I dare say, it must be, you have simply gone giddy with giggles. Perhaps a different route should be approached.

If I were a murderess, which in all heart-related actuality I am, I will give this fair promise that in all my running around and cutting out hearts, that yours will simply be those one I keep closest to mine.

Alas, too dark? Oh, my love, but there must be some way to express my doting! Be in not in a dark sonnet, or an adoring sonnet, perhaps a comedic one?

There were two things I was certain of. One, that he was a vampire, and two, that I was irrevocably attracted to him.

Oh, perhaps too comedic. Perhaps too unkind. Perhaps a bit too much paraphrasing. But I digress. Anything I can do to please you, my dearest one? Anyway I can express how I feel without making you laugh, or giggle, or simply chuckle at me?

It cannot be as simple, as you say. It cannot be as easy as holding you close and whispering in your ear how much I love you. Can it?

Well I promise, then, that I will spend my nights whispering towards you my affections, and holding you tight until you can stand my embrace no more. Will that suffice?

Oh, I love you.

And I suppose that's the best way to put it.

"My gracious lord,
I may be negligent, foolish and fearful;
In every one of these no man is free,
But that his negligence, his folly, fear,
Among the infinite doings of the world,
Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord,
If ever I were wilful-negligent,
It was my folly; if industriously
I play'd the fool, it was my negligence,
Not weighing well the end; if ever fearful
To do a thing, where I the issue doubted,
Where of the execution did cry out
Against the non-performance, 'twas a fear
Which oft infects the wisest: these, my lord,
Are such allow'd infirmities that honesty
Is never free of. But, beseech your grace,
Be plainer with me; let me know my trespass
By its own visage: if I then deny it,
'Tis none of mine."

Shakespeare wrote
of ‘trees bedashed with rain’
Doesn’t that remind you
of tears upon a face?

Where perils cut
Do sorrows bleed?
Does pain depend upon
the laying of our scene
or are the plagues upon the race
a universal theme?
The winds are wanting
change and haunting
all the sleeping’s
most pleasant dreams.

SONNET 138**

When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told:
   Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
   And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

Who was she?
This heavenly lady
A woman of passion and boundless love
In whose steps Shakespeare did stalk

Endless pages filled with inked words
Words of despair
Declarations of passion
Screams of want
Driving himself into a frenzy
As he scribbled each play
Searching
Looking for the right words
Those perfect letters to utter

Which could bring her love to him
All it took for him was one look
But for her
Golden goddess among pathetic humanity
More was needed
Much more was required

So did Shakespeare venture
Deeper into the power of letters
Struggling to pave the path to his goddess's heart

The fates sadly had another story in mind
For young Shakespeare's legacy
He was not to be gifted they believed
His goddess of perfection and over flowing love
Instead he was to be a beacon
Of hope
To all torn lovers who dared to walk this earth

A shining light to guide them
Treat them with belief
That some day
One day
Love would truly prevail.