All the World's a Stage

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot

The mental words of a critical mind lash endlessly against this tired back.

That I, in some regard, might find myself alleviated - or there for lack

Of words, yet words are mine and mine alone;

A secret tome,

With rare solemn respite

Indeed, these words have I written and rewritten.

Upon my tongue and brain both smitten,

But I dared not let them breathe;

Lest my subtle arrogance precede

My mired thoughts and darkened soul

It is not for me to dream, for dreams have I;

Alcoves full and cups to fill the sky.

While stoic facade may appear but restrained,

indeed at times I feel constrained,

As if airy words are less treasured

I do so wish to find my part,

Through writer's pen or brilliant stroke of art.

But no tools have I to silence this longing -

As if a stubborn bell keeps calling,

Hurrying me from home

Stuck in tracks of difficult routine,

I confess I am no Houdini -

It is not for me but to come and go,

With naught but fields of dreams to grow;

A terrible way to live or die

Beneath these weighted words of heavy load I sleep,

A cold and battered blanket upon my burdened feet.

About Me