I am not Yeats, I am not Yeats, I am

Not Yeats. I do not love her like that. I

Don’t. I do. I don’t. I do. Who the fuck

Am I to know? That’s the way this thing goes.

She is the sun on my waterless earth.

She is the stars when I can only hear.

I want to save her, I want to save her,

I want to save her. She doesn’t need me.

Me. Her. Me. Her. What am I doing? It

shouldn’t be like this. It’s 4:29

a.m. and I don’t know what the fuck I

am talking about. Get out. Get out. Leave.

This needs to be over. It never was

Real in the first place. It is in my head.

It’s fake. Go away. Go away. Please go.

Sip, sip, put the bottle down and look at

The screen again. Stuck in a cycle of

Her and I’m unsure of everything.

It’s all wrong. It’s not right. I am not Yeats.

I am not Yeats. I am not Yeats. I’m not.

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Welcome to the empty recesses of my mind! I'm a recent college graduate realizing a Creative Writing degree was a bad idea. Give me a pity like. Or you could check out the about sections (on the front page and about this author page) on my blog to learn a little more about me. Whatever. https://thebohemianrockstarpresents.wordpress.com/

2 Comment on ““I am not Yeats”

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