I am sitting here, the sun spilling through the window, blinding me.
My back pressed to the couch,
My neck twisted in pain, staring at the rows of books
Pilled high on one another
Feeling sober.
My eyes quickly roam the books,
taking in the authors' names  
I eagerly search the name
Impatiently anticipating it
Four times I come across it,
Micheal, Michael, Michael, Michael!
My eyes brimming with tears that spill each time.
What's in a name? As Shakespeare's Juliet explained:
If a rose should be called another name, would it not smell just as sweet?
If you were called any other name Michael, I guess I'll be just as bitter over you.