Of the Shakespearean/Byronian School, except less good.

Oh, my pale and inconstant heart!
Whose depths are subsets of its shallowness
That we should ever meet to part,
And exist beyond our petty callowness


I'm in a rather interesting mood today. Yes, noble readers who no longer read this, I definitely still hate poetry, but at least I'm making an effort to grow artistically... kinda. Don't judge me, I only said I was a poet, I never said I was a good poet. :P