I spend hours glaring angrily at the nothingness which brought about this frail tragedy that is anything but Shakespeare,
but if it had to be,
in closest relations to a flawed impersonation of Romeo and Juliet where I am neither lover,
but instead a ragged loner,
trapped in the ideals of a perfection planet,
a misplaced glitch in the system.
The coffee stain on the pages of a book bound in ivory and silver,
spreading,
corrupt,
and a little bit lost,
but here is home,
and I'll be sitting in this plastic chair until home isn't a word anymore
and grey storm clouds billowing over a green meadow isn't picturesque, it's me
and the people running from it only know me as human
and not the dirt under Aphrodite's fingernail,
not the boomerang that never comes back
not the daydream that turns into a nightmare
because I am not Shakespeare
but I am tragedy.
