I would not take a poet advice from a historian.
A warrior this tis to that is not the root of what.
What. What. What. It's the rhythm of that that just isn't.
I am me. Not this or that or you and me.
I am me. I am not the tradition of fairwells or goodbyes or hellos and sorry dears.
I am not even an Eve. I'm not you. I'm me.
I don't care for the idols of wishy washies of wants or bees.
I don't even care for the idiocy of what even your next of kin thinks of me.
She's not me. If she doesn't like me, it's because she wants to be me and can't.
That type of envy has a habit of eating a person alive.
I'm not envy. I'm not Eve.
I'm me.
A Boethious contempt for what I'm not that you'd like me to be.
You don't even like yourself. How can you even possibly hope to like being me.
It would likely make you not even like yourself even just more thoroughly.
The real is already there. Reality is a friend not me.
You want to be me but your not even a friend to the reality behind you.
If you're not a friend then your not a friend. It doesn't matter if you want to be me.
I am me.
I am me.
I am me.
And you're not.
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