Sometimes I cannot say
what is blue rose or basilisk.

‘...We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep’                      
Shakespeare The Tempest Act IV.i.156

We are such stuff of stars and light
our grasping hand, our gaping eye
our mind electric sparking
all atoms in the crystal night
connected matter
across infinity
still in one moment
collected together
in the universe
and my quiet garden
at midnight.

******* society
For making people believe
That there is a certain way to live and breath
Everyone is the same, there is no variety
You outcast those for rioting
And living their life defiantly
What gives you the right to judge me
You are not god almighty
You are the reason for my anxiety
And loss of sobriety
And visits to the psychiatry
But I stand in protest finally
I will no longer sit quietly
And let you decide unjustifiably
What I should be

Your judgment makes people feel insecure
Why do you believe that everyone has to be similar
Why don't you understand that no one is perfect
Why do I have to conform to your culture to earn respect
Why is money the only way to achieve success
Every person lives just like the next
This makes me feel so depressed

*******, I chose to be unique
I refuse to live a life that's boring and bleak
My life does not need to be critiqued
Your approval will not bring relief

Happiness is key
I will live happy and free

love me so, love me though
my heart is not yet at the ready.
see me through, see me new
a person rebuilding from thine past.
stabbed through the heart,
broken from the start
this romance doomed 'fore the bloom.
you love me so, you love me though
I cannot return the favour

Shall I compare thee to a cup of tea?
Thou art less lovely and less temperate.
Your voice winds do shake my tranquillity,
And fair attentions are too hard to get.
Sometimes too hot your critical glare shines,
And often is your vicious tongue untrimmed;
And every sip of love in time declines,
With swift return to lover's lounge much dimmed.
Your sharp heat shall never cool to comfort,
And all sugar in the world won't sweeten,
The bitter beating of your blackened heart;
Nor shall the greed of your soul be beaten.
As long as men can drink a cup of tea,
So long lives my hate and disgust for thee.

When people see
Romeo and Juliet
Die together
They think
"How poetic".
Want to know
What's really poetic?
The sound of the chords
That resonate through the piano
When I take a hammer
To its keys.
Or the way my heart
Reshapes itself
To wrap around your soliloquies
About how you don't need me.
You see,
When two people
Fall desperately in love,
It isn't poetic-
It's the things we do
For those who don't
Reciprocate that love
And the ignorance we hold
Against their disinterest.
We **** ourselves every day
For those who live just fine
Without us.
And that's stupid.
That's life.
That's poetry.

One million and one tiny houses span this city
where one million unsatisfied lovers sleep.
Does Romeos childish grin see more
than these unlit brick roads reveal?
In darkness lovers die alone.
Oh Romeo,
          what did you find in her eyes tonight?

I wiped my *** on Shakespeare once:
in the absence of guidance
or conscience or prudence
bereft of any toilet paper
the solution appliance
which at the time felt like brilliance
was the re-acquaintance of Hamlet.

In that transient experience
the resemblance of ignorance
and the reverence of indifference
ignoring the previous deviance
was replaced
with a new found sense
of future
toiletry diligence.