The Poet

The poet talks (to no one in particular) through poetry.

I'm still sitting

Waiting right here.

Waiting for what?

Ha. I haven't the slightest clue.

So I sit some more.

Write some more of this useless poetry

About how it feels like I left my live heart

Getting dusty under my bed.

Which is impossible.

Reason one? Feel my pulse.

Still thumping, right?

Reason two?

There is no 'under my bed'

When you sleep on a loft bed.

Just a desk.

And it seems I only write this

Useless, dramatic junk

To get me, the writer, writing

And to get you, the reader, reading.

Meanwhile I should be doing my homework.

It's one day overdue.

But when I get a flame on my last, wet match

I rush to get firewood

Before the wind blows it out.

So I'll have to say goodbye now

Because work is piling up

And I have to hurry up

Before the pile topples over onto me.

The End

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