He has his stories about life and love,
convinced of the climax,
gleaming from its brilliant denouement.
Revealing himself in verses and prose,
wisdom beyond his birth year,
but a boy he remains.
He insults me with his pride,
self-righteous,
revealing his innocence again and again and again.
Oh! I wish things differently.
I'm selfish with boyish expectations.
I've cared for an ego,
I've fed it over and over and over.
I'm starving.
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