His silence angers me.
And when they come by,
his words drive me mad.
No more poems for him,
no more outbursts.
Irritation
simmers.
This close to being tipped off,
I notice he hasn't learned yet
how to bite away a nail
properly.
I look up.
Eyes braving to fake innocence.
I look down.
Footwear in colours
I wouldn't dare mention
together.
He is a fool.
I sigh.
Just as he is effortlessly making his
way in..
'You know, when I write, it..'
'.. yeah, yeah, blahblah.'
I won't write for him.
Promise.
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