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Wednesday, December 18, 2013

For Yeats, With Disdain

You are the sun on my back that I so fear to turn around to face
For history shows that if I try
I will not be able to see you, and you will not be on my back any longer
And my back is, without question, my favorite spot for the sun

I don't know what that means
That the place I most crave the light is the place I can't see it
Honestly, I can only imagine it means my back gets cold sometimes

I am sick and tired of everything meaning something
Especially over the course of a meaningless existence
I wonder if I assign meaning more to distract myself or to distract girls
In the end, it doesn't matter
That's all.

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