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  • Writer's pictureFauze Hassen

a much better poet

a much better poet calls my name out and loud

the hall is empty, dark walls and the name of Gods being chanted backwards

ladies claiming to be Eastwood's relatives from the other side of the world

grab my arm and require answers


as a much better poet calls my name

out

and

loud


a much better poet moves his arms and hands rapidly in the air

as he stands in front of a group of humans attempting to find a meaning, or something

rude words are shouted in my ears, everything hurts

more fingers are pointed, a mass intervention with surreal intentions crawls around the room

my car is parked outside, keys waiting in the ignition

as a small dog barks underneath the two p.m sun


as a much better

poet

calls my

name

out

and loud


there is not a better poet, the voice of God echoes as it reaches wooden walls

as the crowd, petrified, behold

a knife is thrown from behind me,

and it travels with invisible precision

before I blink, there it is

the heart finds the metal

the man standing before us with his words and rhymes and years of writing falls quietly on the brown carpet

that man is dead


and so I walk up and stand before those lost souls

and once again

the world is ours

I shout


I am your poet







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