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There are times in one's life that is all mystery
The mystery of my life involves head trauma. I know that I loved Shakespeare and my favorite play Midsummer Night's Dream it is no longer in my memory it is a fog of the past but still lives in my heart. I had many friends of whom some I no longer remember Those that stood by me and with me kept what I loved near Please bare with me as I try to live and keep my dreams alive. It is sad for me to know people ignore what this head injury has done to me I can make my life where it is not known but when I get lost in a store or on my way home no one understands and so alone I feel When I do not know a person it is real now tomorrow I may remember But for now if I tell you I do not know it is true as I have no clue of who or what you are I know I have taken refuse in my animals as they do not judge me They do not care if I no longer remember their name They do not call me stupid nor do they look at me as I am dumb I know I can win this battle with my written word My violin sits silent next to the piano that no longer plays The saddles have grown dusty and brittle The Art easel has long been abandon,the canvas still plain The beloved garden now full of weeds I have Aphasia now due to the head trauma This does not mean I am stupid it only means the word I want is not there If you give me time I will be able to tell you what I want If you do not want to give me the time then you will just understand my version of I am tired of trying to talk to you So believe what you wish.
Now do not feel sad for me as you should rejoice for I am a survivor I can still think, I can still live each day in which that day brings on new beginnings Even though I may have already done it or said it For now though I know I still love my Shakespeare
This wonderful mind has never forgotten the greatest poet in our world
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Thou speakest aright: I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon, and make him smile When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, Neighing in likeness of a filly foal; And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl In very likeness of a roasted crab, And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob, And on her withered dewlap pour the ale. The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me; Then slip I from her bum, down topples she, And 'tailor' cries, and falls into a cough; And then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh, And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear A merrier hour was never wasted there. But room, fairy, here comes Oberon.
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by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth. For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, Or any of these all, or all, or more, Intitled in thy parts to crownèd sit, I make my love ingrafted to this store. So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give That I in thy abundance am sufficed And by a part of all thy glory live. Look what is best, that best I wish in thee. This wish I have; then ten times happy me! HOW can I then return in happy plight That am debarred the benefit of rest, When day's oppression is not eased by night, And each, though enemies to either's reign, Do in consent shake hands to torture me, The one by toil, the other to complain How far I toil, still farther off from thee? I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven; So flatter I the swart-complexioned night, When sparkling stars twire not, thou gild'st the even. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger. BUT wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? And fortify yourself in your decay With means more blessèd than my barren rime? Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens, yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life repair Which this time's pencil or my pupil pen, Neither in inward worth nor outward fair Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. To give away yourself keeps yourself still, And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. |
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A Fairy Song
Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire! I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the Fairy Queen, To dew her orbs upon the green; The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours; In those freckles live their savours; I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. William Shakespeare Carpe Diem O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O stay and hear! your true-love's coming That can sing both high and low; Trip no further, pretty sweeting, Journey's end in lovers' meeting-- Every wise man's son doth know. What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty,-- Then come kiss me, Sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure. William Shakespeare Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. William Shakespeare From fairest creatures we desire increase From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory; But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament, And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content, And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be: To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. William Shakespeare |
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