I am tired of learning how to love.
I am under the weather, attempting the truth.
I'd love to be content.
Yet the stumbling block:
a self created version of myself
creating a microcosm
in which to wrap its tears up with mine.
My version is no where close to the duplicate.
A photocopier bleeding black ink
and copies of copies
making up for the disappearance of the original.
Anxiety stealing my presence.
I will quit myself.
I will put myself
in the presence
of a present
state of mind
where to transfer meaning
will not be
to take from a construct
of what really happened.
If there even is
something such as that.
