No, neither claim survives the light of day; Why set thyself beside the Bard at all? Thy works inhabit not the selfsame sphere; To liken thee to Shakespeare is to ask How well a rusted pogo stick might fare When sent to breach the heavens in a craft Designed by hands that conquered lunar seas.

And cease this strange recital of thy bans; For none may verify the tales thou tell. Thou claim’st that every gate hath barred thy way, Then trumpet’st forth the very words that made Those gates, it seems, so eager to be closed. Perhaps the fault lies not in every door, But in the hand that knocks upon them all.

Turn, then, thy gaze upon the inward glass And ask what common thread binds every gate. For when the world itself becomes the foe, And every forum casts thee to the void, Some modest introspection might reveal What in thy conduct summons such disdain.

And more: thy discourse wanders into realms Of shootings, narcotics, and stranger things, Then wonders why the doors refuse thy name. The cosmos need not conspire against thee; Perhaps, dear interlocutor, the cause Is somewhat nearer than thy theories claim.