Day 5 Shakespeare Consoles...Me!

On the 400th anniversary of William Shakespeare, I wanted to pay him homage.  As is so perfectly befitting, his talent--yes, he himself--is so large, he could not be contained by one page, but rather he spilled over to a second.

I felt like ( no, I truly am not off of my rocker--just imagination, peeps) Shakespeare would say this quote to me, trying to arrest my deep sorrow over the death of Prince.  I even momentarily thought of putting a small Prince figure in there who said, "Shakespeare, you are one insightful, intelligent, sexy motherfucker!"  I couldn't bring myself to do it, though.

Saturday Night Live dedicated their entire show to Prince tonight--so classy of them.  It was great, and then I felt just incredibly sad.  You see, I read that he was cremated today, and suddenly it seemed like he had died all over again.  Seeing him singing with his sexy swagger, his virtuosity of that guitar, and thinking that his body no longer existed on this planet and he would never put on another performance like that, well, I felt my heart breaking like an egg hit hard against the side of a bowl.

Help me, great Bard!

Will Had A Way with His Quill

Will Had A Way with His Quill

Even as a young, naive boy,

Will had a way with his quill.

His mother would shout

from the room across the hall

put that candle out,

once and for all!

But forge ahead the precocious writer sped,

he had so much he needed to get down with his feathery pen.

In his clever mind, scampered ladies and lads,

their stories needed to be told, both happy and sad.

He knew not why he needed to act thusly,

his desire to express exactly the words needed

made him seem quite fussy.

William could hear when his characters pleaded,

"Write beautifully our most hidden actions and thoughts, 

your labor in the future will reveal how richly you succeeded."

So he abided, much to his mother's chagrin,

the call of the mighty muse, 

plucking aside her reprimands like strings on a violin.

His fingers stained with ink, his eyes made bloodshot still

A wordsmith always would he be,

for Shakespeare obeyed the will of his quill.