There are just two of us
in the room by myself.
There is I, who is quiet
and can write poetry
and there is him
full of rage and anger,
inexplicable contempt for living.
Both of us are sad,
dissatisfied with life,
hunger for something more.
We want to learn, study,
or become artists,
through the pen or voice.

I am stony, silent and simmering,
he is fiery, aggresice, animalistic.
We are linked in body and frustration.

I use the pen
he prefers the sword.

The End

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