Dear Will

Dear Will:

I dare not tell
the men of musket and rye
that a poem was written
much less claim
it was I

For their views of worth:
a hundred yard bull's eye
wrestling a bear
after a keg
of ale or rye

I drinketh not
and for that I am shunned
but they're impressed
with my handling
of Griz and a gun.

That's the way of the forest
where I reside
but by candle light
my words to paper fly
by day
they I must hide

To be
or not to be
maybe a choice
but my mind is drawn
to script of a pen

I am no Romeo
I have no Juliet
Perhaps I am dull
But poetry grasps me
like Hamlet holds a skull

Life's tiny stage
you are known to rule
here you would be the fool
I feel you only know
how my pen is a tool

To remove my hand
would surely end my write
But that wouldn't stop
the words inside
my tongue would improvise

I write you now
cause I feel you know
the inner beast
that knaws at my prose
and scribbles in candle lite glows

Is there a cure
for my desires?
this need to write
an act or scene
or is it death or poetry?

My dear friend Will
I suffer a madness
in my head's sphere
tonight's write
to William Shakespeare