Letters from the Lady

This is a poem written for my English class and, as most English assignments go, the majority was written late at night, please excuse any confusing phrases or words.
Ophelia, from Shakespeare's Hamlet, is betrayed by several characters. In this poem are letters to the most prominent betrayers, Ophelia's father, brother, lover, and self (she eventually goes insane).

Letters from the Lady

To My Lord Polonius, Father,
My Spirit
your words uplifted not, while Hamlet’s
name echoed from your lips, but
My Conscience
allows exception of no kind to refuse
a father’s well thought wishes.
My Thoughts,
you ask, of Hamlet? Alas! "I do not know what
I should think" for fear of your displeasure (1.3.113).
My Obedience
you shall receive, now and forever,
it I shall give, with no sigh or hesitation (1.3.145).
Respectfully Yours,
Ophelia

To My Dearest Laertes,
My Brother,
despair is not a welcome feeling,
yet it welcomed itself swiftly as you left.
My Grief
grew when, after our father’s fall, and
Hamlet’s actions, your comfort was too far sent.
My Memory
recalls your helpful speeches; I "remember
well what. . . [you]. . . have said" (1.3.90-91).
My Eyes
cannot enough consume your written word, and
my ears ache to hear your voice–Fly quickly.
Devotedly Yours,
Ophelia

To My Bewildering Hamlet,
My Heart
more crushed could not be, had you gouged it
with your hands from my body, though it is
My Wish
you had, for dead maidens feel no sorrow.
Your denial of passionate love sparked (3.1.127-129)
My Denial
of self. But, why, and how, should I
deny your "words of so sweet breath," love? (3.1.107).
My Regret
for your hurt, my betrayal, please understand.
"O, woe is me ‘t have seen what I have seen!" (3.1.175).
Eternally Yours,
Ophelia

To My Eccentric Ophelia,
My Dear–Believe,
"He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone" (4.5.34-37).
My Dear–Rosemary,
to remember your past, even during
the past death will make of you.
Here, Love–Pansies,
for thought and thoughts and thinks
and thinking, again, to overcrowd the mind.
Take Now–Fennel,
may its blossom never fade, ever
as your deceit; a well rooted seedling.
And Another, Maiden–Rue,
letting sorrow destroy the damaged,
damage destroyed damage, over and thrice.
but My Dear, the Violets!
the Violets? With purple-bruised face
and wide fanned petals, how quaint. . .
No, the violets left. Gone, dead (4.5.199-209).
Say goodnight and follow, Ophelia, dear.
Goodnight, Ophelia, dear.
Fantastically Yours,
Ophelia