SilenceMe• Show poetry

           All the world's a stage,
      And all the men and women merely players;
        They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.


My name is Amy, as you may well know, but that is of little significance. I'm not an author, nor a poet, I am writer. I write what I can see and you cannot, if you can, you are mad.


Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep


I am young and I feel that is more of a hinderance than any good. I want to be 30, but, I know, once I reach 30 I will want to be 16 again. The world is full of dissapointments, I may well be one of them, don't rely on me, I won't on you. Learn to love yourself and I may love you back. Life, and, alas, love are not forever, nothing is.


To be, or not to be, that is the question

One day eternity will end. All will be dead and there will never again be feet upon the earth, words, of which we rely so much upon, will be all but extinct. As will human kind. Love life, it is short and it can hurt but accept death, don't run from it and it won't try to catch you.




save our souls,
amy.