“To be or not to be,” words we’ve regarded, spoken by Hamlet.
Can what was once thought melancholy be thought as such now?
Mind scattered, heart taut, holding on to any perceived amulet;
we begin to feel worn, yet are expected to endure somehow.

 
When our inner selves, battling, are uttering the unspeakable,
fabricating a vise of pain and confusion unable to release,
what are we to do except contemplate the unthinkable?
It is expected after all, when the whispers refuse to cease.

But then the slightest of murmurs make themselves heard.
Gathering once diffused thoughts, amending, even the uncharted,
enough to wake you from a sleep from which you’d never stirred.
And just then, something unfamiliar has started.

    While a part of us may delve into the finis of life,
    There still remains a piece within us, foe to strife.