Journal Entry 1 – Macduff Dear Journal, “Tongue nor heart cannot conceive nor name thee! ” (2. 3. 74). Thy greatest king hath been murdered. Thoughts of sorrow and wondering have filled thee. Who wouldst do such a thing? Was thy host not watchful enough with the most honored man in his presence? Maybe thou should have stayed with his Majesty for he is of the highest nobility and honor possible. Who ever hath committed this crime is guilty of murder and treason. Oh! The people, the people! What shall become of them without thy leader?

Will the criminals roam the streets, with the people fearing to leave their homes? All of these are questions with no answers! I do believe it’s my turn to step in and allow myself the privilege of discovering which fiend it was that hath murdered his Majesty, the king. At first, it was thought to be the beast like guards who stood outside the king’s chamber. It deeply concerns me as to why Macbeth would dispose of them so soon after the death of his royal highness without the chance to probe their minds with questions and make them face the rest of Scotland as those whom betrayed their leader.

Maybe it was the sons of the great Duncan which have set up the murderous plot to gain the throne for their own selfish purpose. The fact that they have left the country and fled in opposite directions is beyond my knowledge. If they wanted to be king, why murder your own father and flee to a different country…? What about the recently promoted Thane of Cawdor? He holds much too great of an honor and sincerely respected Duncan. But still, he did murder the guards; maybe he was hiding something like a vital piece of information. Now that I think of it, if I had been the one in Macbeth’s position, I too may have lost my temper.

In the wise words of Macbeth, “Who can be wise, amazed, temp’rate, and furious,/ Loyal, and neutral, in a moment? No man. ” (2. 3. 27-28). Journal Entry 2 – Macduff Dear Journal, I do wonder what hath become of this dreadful country I have called home for oh so many years. It has fallen to shreds. Is there not an ounce left in the blood thirsty, murder driven ruler whom I used to call a friend? “Each new morn/New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows/Strike heaven on the face” (4. 3. 5-7). It seems as though everything that once mattered to me has been ripped from my grasp and a stake driven through my heart.

My home, nothing but a blood ridden castle. The memories that shall haunt me forever… no way to scrub them from the floors of my beloved home. Macbeth, whom was thought to be thy greatest hero, now nothing to me but a parasite that thou must rid the earth of. “Front to front/ Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself. / within my sword’s length set him. If he ‘scape,/ Heaven forgive him too. ” (4. 3. 272-275). Thou art not one of murderous intent, but the pleasure that would engulf me after skewering him is immense. What if I become a monster like the creature that we used to call by the name of Macbeth?

Will the blood lust conquer me at first sight? What if thou becomes like Lady Macbeth and speak hushed words of fear? Will the guilt overwhelm my mind to the point that I will become distressed in my sleep? Why must there always be questions to which I cannot conjure just one simple answer? Off to bed is where I must be at the moment. Goodnight dearest journal, ‘tis true that you are the only one who knows my true thoughts. Macduff Poem “Some Holy Angel” Some holy angel, That is faithful, graceful, The name of Macduff, it may sound tough, But curiously enough, he enjoys cream puffs.

Some holy angel, That is brave, fearless, Shall come to the rescue, So the country does not become askew, The bloody sights will no longer seem like deja vu. Some holy angel, Who contains that holy soul, Who’s body may be littered with scars and holes, Will rid the country of the one named Macbeth, He shall be the one to bring him to his death. Journal Entry 1- Lady Macbeth Dearest Diary, Thou hath taken part in many wrong-doings. Murder and treason are causes for death sentences. The rush was sensational. The feelings building up inside me were a mixture of anxiousness and delight.

What a womanly character, my husband that is, for he hath guilt written all across every wrinkle in his brain. “My hands are of your color, but I shame/ To wear a heart so white. ” (2. 2. 82-83). The scene replays over and over in my mind. There is always those little voices in the back of my head. One telling me exactly to place the pieces of evidence and the other reprimanding me for the horrid deed my husband and I hath carried out. Of course, I feel a little remorse for murdering the king of Scotland, but now that my husband shall become king, that makes me queen.

Is there no better a reward for the death of merely one person? I have simply removed an obstacle that was in my way. Any creature that stands in my way will be obliterated, for I hath been unsexed and the great spirits have taken “my milk for gall” (1. 5. 55). Fear has been instilled in my husband’s heart but mine, no, not mine. My heart makes lead feel like a feather. I have no guilt within me. As a matter of fact, the thought of this plan fills my body with sweet delight! ‘Tis getting late now diary. I shall return to thee at a later date in time.

For now, keep my secrets. I forbid thee to allow a single soul to read the content of these pages. My life depends on it. Journal Entry 2- Lady Macbeth Dearest Journal, I do believe I have lied to thee. My conscience is not painted white. I believe thou hath been possessed by a dark spirit at night, one that makes its host walk and talk and carry out activities normally done during the hours of the sun. Last night the spirit that possessed me forced images into my head. There was blood everywhere. The reddish brown, sticky liquid was rushing at me from all angles.

No matter how hard I tried it would not come off my skin. I remember, I began shouting, “Out, damned spot, out, I say! ” (5. 1. 37). My mind was so clear, why must this madness begin now? Where hath my sanity fled to? This madness is not only for the death o his ex-Majesty, but also my guilt-ridden husband. I do believe I said “Wash your hands. Put on your night-/gown. Look not so pale. I tell you yet again, Ban-/quo’s buried; he cannot come out on ‘s grave. ” (5. 2. 65-67). I am not sure how much longer I can handle these horrid images that crowd my once peaceful head.

What shall I do? I have become afraid of sleeping for the dark spirit may possess thou and reveal my deepest, darkest secret to the whole kingdom! Just a few more nights is all I can put up with. This disastrous sleep has caused so much pain and suffering to thee, I hath thought of putting thyself to rest permanently. Greatest night my dearest journal. Lady Macbeth Poem “Invisible Guilt” I carry this weight around, but never does it show, It has become that light in my eyes, constantly aglow. By day, it hides like a bug under a rock, By night, it emerges and makes me talk and walk.

I may be fierce and fearless; I know that much is true, But how much do I really know when I bid consciousness adieu? When others enjoy their deep, cozy slumber, I am asleep, with much deceit, when I begin to lumber. How much longer will this guilt rest upon my back? Maybe I should try a different angle of attack. Now that you know what lies in this head because of the man who was impaled, What did you think, this was some sort of fairytale? I carry this weight around but never does it show, The guilt of bringing death upon others, I now know what I owe.