For A.
You are reality.
I hate you.
You are every poem
I never intended to write.
You are ugliness and
Hatred and
Reality.
I hate you.
You are the sad songs.
You are the lonely songs.
You are the door
Which remains unopened
Forever.
You are the absolute
From which there is no escape.
You are cold wind
And driving rain
And mad wandering
With no place to go.
You are reality.
I hate you.
H Schirmer
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