Silent contemplation
Brings my eyes back
To that book, that
Old and fading lump of
Torn and yellowed pages
Filled with every Shakespeare work.
All the works of just one man,
Filling a thousand pages;
It sits there like a
Pulsing tumor, symbolizing death.
Shakespeare is nothing else,
A gone and long past mummy,
Left behind in nothing but
These endless, yellowed sheets of paper.

And here beside them sit
My notebooks, more than
A thousand, at least.
I remain alive and yet
Unknown, forever lost
Within time’s tempest.
Cold sits Shakespeare’s book,
Yet mine as well,
Useless and fading and dying.
My eye only have seen my words
Haphazardly scrawled upon white paper.
Lost to me are reasons for
Why I have started this maddening quest.
Tell me, who am I trying to impress?
What reason have I to still
Vehemently write endless words
Already spoken?

Do people still read Shakespeare?
When was the last time
Anyone read him willingly?
Is his work still any good,
Or are teachers pulling homage
Out of their asses?
Good or bad, tragic or comedic,
Shakespeare is immortal…
Or so they say. I still see
That large, yellowed book
Deteriorating on my desk,
Just like all my notebooks.
Someday, I, too, will fade away,
Torn and breaking apart at the spine,
Losing meaning and thinking
The show must go on.
Even if I try to best Shakespeare,
It won’t matter in ten billion years.
Even the sun must one day fade;
Even the Bard must one day die.
Yet still I write, still I move.
Would Shakespeare be impressed,
Or is the book of my life
Not worth reading?