A Poet's Life
As I stooped lower and lower in her eyes, I was, in fact, rising up, up and way above the clouds towards the dizzying void of space.
She loathed me.
She wanted me to leave.
But I stuck on, not because it was absolutely necessary, but because I was feeding on her hatred and writing poetry with the fumes of this acid. And this only goes to prove that even in her absolute hatred she was a friend. She was lifting me up.