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Oct 2013
Run
It’s strange, the things I let myself do.
While I, surrounded in filth, am thinking of you.
You twist my words behind my back
They write themselves into a poem
That lacks a steady rhyme scheme.
Sure.
My poetry has stopped being beautiful.
But it’s started to have meaning.
The man you are,
The man I want,
Should not want me.
Jake Conner
Written by
Jake Conner
328
   Patricia Tsouros
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