hamlet
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Where is my father?
So have I a noble father lost.
The King, the king’s to blame;
Treason! Treason!
Her hair still perfectly poised and
My Fair Ophelia,
That tear that trembles down a heavy toll is
No more.
Sleep, dear, within your flowers and dream
The life in him runs under the skin, under my hand, running through the splotches, smelling up into my nose
Early mornings with Colombian coffee is how I start my day
Early dog walks with Luna and Rocky is how I get energized
Warm water over my body is how I get prepared for the day
To think or not to think-that is the question:
Whether ‘tis worthy for the mind to wander
The sullied and tarnished thoughts of destined fate,
Or to kneel before a paradox of uncertainty
To love to not to love, that is the question:
Whether company will make the pain less
And stand by my side when times are trying
Or perhaps to stand alone against demons,
All things without reference vanish
to the undiscovered country
from which none have yet returned.
Those whom fortune neither kissed nor cursed,
Robbed of throne and robbed of crown
robbed of family and of dignity
robbed of school but not of worth
appers a father's ghost.
Killed or murdered has been answered
but the question of revenge has not.
Why do you push me away
When all I want to do is help?
Please let me help take care of you,
Since you cannot yourself.
You used to be so kind to me,
Now you won't let me in.
I can't win.
What if i told you there is hope?
What if I told you there is an end?
Would you believe me?
I have strong eyes and a weak heart
I'm going to break all your laws
I have an iron fist and deadly bite
I'm going to break all your laws
I have long legs and a short temper
How shall I describe thee?
A Little More Than Kin A Little Less Than Kind?
A viper turned Cobra with the murder of a brother?
Hamlet speech To be or not to be now that is my question/
Weather to act to or not react and then explain my confession/
Is it right I don't react, I feel I'm losing control/
To be or not to beI believe Hamlet was getting somewhere with thisTo exist is to thinkAnd to think is to beYet, what of the other side?This is not an exclimation to Death
I think I died.The heart beneath my rib cage doesn't beat for anything anymore. My spirit's decaying and the smell has started to permeate every area of my life.
My Father,
No longer.
No more
My Uncle.
My mother,
Who is she?
Good bye
Wittenberg.
What ditch is this, life?!
To strain or not to strain? That is the question—
No no, not the Greek yogurt in my cherry heart.
Do I filter this foreign, vulgar tongue?
Perhaps I am the most unbecoming debutante—
I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for my love of Shakespeare.
He led me to the world of Macbeth and King Lear.
He taught me to die for love in Romeo and Juliet.
And live with no regret.
Awake as an owl
a desert bird
the orange eyes
the streetlamps cast
upon my wall
a shadow
like a longship
on the desolate
wasted oceans
or only my lampshade
Twas’ the son of the dead king and he acted as a mouse,
The son was in a hurry to talk to his mom’s spouse.
On the son’s way he ran, into Ophelia, Oh man!
That truly is the question, isn’t it?
Not just regarding the life or death bit;
It can be what you want to be doing,
Or not doing, like viewing, or wooing.
To perm or not to perm-that is the question:
Whether it is nobler in the mind to embrace the kink
The twist outs, the rollers and the de-tangler
Once, they exchanged roses;
red and yellow, red and white.
Behold the fair Ophelia
in the witch-hazel night
The moon is a waxing crescent, celebrating the new rule.
Under both, a goodman delver digs.
He stops for a moment, and looks around.
My father was the constant sun of mine
Placed in the center of my universe,
Dictating daily toils, joys, and time,
My seasons, too- though seasons deeper go
Than gravity due to the sun, for as
I met the dear Ophelia
Upon the western stair
Through some columns of transport
Into the wild air.
A hard world we live in today
It's almost like the ultimate video game
But unlike a game there is no resetting
No pausing
And definitely No extra lives
But these harsh realities are often ignored
If innocence were bottled up in human form, she would be the epistle within
Her chestnut hair glistens underneath the morning sun
Her dark eyes possess a thousand, mystifying riddles
