"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"
No, you shan't.
But if you must compare me to something, let it be a rainy, cold day, when high hopes are lost, and attitudes darken.
When people yearn for that age old sun, for it's rays and warmth.
When people rage at my clouds and drenching downfall.
When people hate me.
When people write poetry about my opposite.
So if you write, comparing me to the blinding light, the sweat drenching heat, of that horrible old star in the sky, know that what you are writing is lies.
And that is all the people want to hear.
They refuse to listen to darkness.
They refuse to understand what they were born from.
They are addicted to the lies that make everything better.
So let them feast and be merry.
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