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Life through Poetry

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Shakespeare Sonnet 23

As an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

Yet again, these words fill every room I'm in, like ghosts that have taken refuge within my very heart, stubbornly refusing to move out. It began as whispers, increasingly growing louder and louder until it was a banshee's cry. In vain I covered my ears as the echos of its silent truth bounce off the walls and hit my every being with cold, harsh veracity. I ran madly as I tried to block out the images of the day's events --- the momentary bliss, the cruel fated circumstances, the destructive pride, the muddled reactions, the guilty realization.

Oh why must Eros choose to torture his victims this way? It is but the heaviest of punishments. Must the price be so high for such lofty a crime? Even the richest and most powerful of men fall prey to Aphrodite's snare.

I ask but one thing that will get me through this despair. That the object of mine affection see past the foolish acts, not taking them as they are, but seeing them as misguided attempts to convey a feeling so strong. May he see and pity the heart that beats in a frenzied dance, confused and weary.

Ask me not to speak for words seem to fail me at the moment, they being unable to fathom the essence of what I have not said. Think instead of my motives, my intended deeds, the trivial little things I have done for you with enthusiasm. With these as the pieces of the puzzle, you will be able to see the honest picture. Only with them will you know the reason for my behavior.

I do not deny that this would be a difficult, tedious and irksome task. Yet your effort will mean much to me, for my pleas of pardon will then not be in vain. No longer shall I fear being misunderstood, being casted in the light of a schizophrenic psychopath whose presence causes discomfort to whoever has had the misfortune to be with me. I ask only for your understanding. And perhaps, only then, my tortured soul will be finally put to rest.