And yet I do, again, and again.

by saajidahfirdausi

I do not want to write about love.
Everyone does. I ought to be different. 
There are other things,
surely.
Death, ambition, poverty…
The dance of dust motes in the sunlight
I could write about my dreams,
morbid as they are;
Of medieval spectacles of electrocuting the poor 
(yes, I really did dream that)
My unconscious mind is a terrible place.
I am heading nowhere,
writing, rambling;
Where can I seek recluse, pray tell
away from these thoughts, these troubles,
your engagement.
My waking life is no better.

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