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The Aloof Poet

He couldn’t help it, the sing-song way thoughts formed in his head. Never an easy yes or no, but a long nonsensical twisted braid of words that usually left someone with a painful throbbing headache that rhymed.

He saw letters, and the words they formed, as weapons; they formed gleaming awls and shimmering tack hammers waiting to be plunged straight into the readers frontal lobe. He once saw a waitress stagger after reading his lines, written on his receipt like bullets sprayed onto a firing squad wall; “Rose are red, black and blue; when the light’s just right, I see the real you”.

He’d always been opinionated in a floral sort of way after his first wife left. She had written him a hateful note on her perfumed stationary. Her words were acidic lilac scented screams, frustrations at never being called beautiful but being called beautifully ugly; her letter stank pretty and for the first time, he respected someone else’s opinion.

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