To you
My writing has no import,
My reading no class.

You make all my words
Seem like carcasses of thoughts,
My thoughts
Irrational whims.

Nothing I do or say
Is enough to win your respect,
You would have me love you,
You tell me 
you love me too.

Your apathy to my desires
Sometimes makes me wonder,
Do you love me,
Or the way 
I love you?

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