The Young, Feminine Shakespeare

Act I

Boy and Girl enter stage.

Boy leaves stage.

Girl   Alas,

'Tis I,

The Young, Feminine Shakespeare,

Whose intoxication is insp'ration,

Wast'd upon attempts of sewing the tatters of unfinish'd morals together again.

Thus, they tell me,

'O, Young, Feminine Shakespeare, you insecure, idealistic, thing,'

And to one's bewild'rment, I say nothing,

For the Young, Feminine Shakespeare knows her limits;

The Young, Feminine Shakespeare knows when 'tis time to stop,

The Young, Feminine Shakespeare knows the bound'ry of suff'ring,

And knows when the line to seeking pity is cross'd.

Thus, the Young, Feminine Shakespeare remains silenc'd,

Lost in her and  in thy heap of pess'mistic thoughts,

Lost in the darkness that s'rrounds herself,

Yet smiling brightly enough to ward it off.

'Tis I, the Young, Feminine Shakespeare,

Relatable to thee, and to Shakespeare himself,

By merely being lost in a world in her mind,

begging, 'O, please,' to be brought to life.

For thee and the Young, Feminine Shakespeare,

Must know how to handle thy pain,

For 'tis thy hurt, thy hurt in a murd'rous rage,

Of one dwelling in thy heart and not thy arms yet again.

And 'tis the hurt that makes thee ask

'O, alas, am I really that f'rgettable?'

And 'tis the hurt that makes thee realize that the pillows,

Such soft, feath'ry, plush,

Aren't nearly as nice to hug as anoth'r being.

For alas, 'twas I, the Young, Feminine Shakespeare,

Who underwent such a disast'rous ordeal,

And who discover'd that the one thee shall take a bullet for is behind the trigger.

'Twas I who persever'd and disguis'd her emotion,

For I had the knowledge of doing otherwise is taking off thy bulletproof vest so one can be shot. 

O, alas, 'tis I,

The Young, Feminine Shakespeare!

'Tis I who remember'd heartbreak,

'Twas my hands that shook with the realization of my t'morrow,

And 'tis me whose today spoke 'heaven,' but displays hell.

And I, the Young, Feminine Shakespeare, alas, who fell.