Shakespearean Moment (kind of)

'Tis the last week of schooling that I attend is now.
For four plus one suns do I go towards an institution
from which I learn the ways which should help me
acquire that which I know I already have.

Relieved am I,
for a burden shall be lifted from me
and I, myself, shall have one less to worry,
for there are things from which ones such as myself need not worry about.

Still, as though cursed by some force so powerful that the eyes of man cannot see Him,
worries and woes still burden ones such as myself.

Nay, only myself, for few in the world in which the His creations life are
as insightful,
as critical,
as cowardly,
as vain,
as innocent as that which is before you
whose text does not speak what the lips say
but what the heart and soul scream.

Yes, scream they do,
with the pains that no not of what others know.
Ignorance, sharpened by the stone of experience,
dives like a sword through their very gullet
depriving each of air in which they need to scream
that which needs to be heard.

Yet it is this pain,
this suffering of the soul,
that I feel one should not go through.
It is this pain that,
somehow,
be it by the will of God
or by the living energy that binds me
to this mortal realm,
drives me
and creates me.

Nervous am I.
Afraid and fearful of what is to become
of myself
of my passion
and of the very dream that others say should not be dreamt
nor should even be dreamt to be dreamed by those who,
like myself,
dare to dream and live in a world where
dreaming and living cannot cooperate.

Seeking comfort in friends and in those that give me comfort
I stand like a new born child
whose mother and father,
both of noble and great respects,
have been murdered and left with very little guidance.
A state of insecurity that rivals that
which Death and the toll of its clock do brag about
with just cause.

Oh, beautiful candle,
with your blond light kissing the black hair of that which you love.
In this dark and gloomy chamber
thy gives thee one last warm light of hope.
But I am nothing but a moth
attracted by your light and burned when I attempt to be one with you.

The wings of depression,
the very wings in which give me strength
to fly above the pain and the suffering,
do more harm than good.
They do little to fan the flames
as all they do is cause extinction.

Aye, woe is me.
Shameful in the past knowing
full well that foolishness leads to nothingness.

Woe is me
for knowing that my heart,
the very organ of love
which is suppose to glow with the love and light of that of God,
does not what it should.

Woe is me
for knowing this castration,
self-inflicted through deprivation
from which you have an excess of,
is that of my own.

Woe is me
and heavy is my heart
like a stone throw into a well dug so deep
it leads to fire than to water.

Sleep, oh sleep, young one.
'Tis only the night you see,
nothing more,
nothing less.

The blond candle shall always burn with a passion.
The darkness shall never be darken.
The heart shall be lifted from the cold.

That which has been denied will be yours soon enough.

Sleep now, oh young dreamer of the day,
And dream not the troubles from which they say.