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He says I write my poems about him
Maybe I do, maybe I don’t
why must I dance to his ego’s songs
I am astonished by his idle fantasies
Maybe I ought to let him hunt…,
fish for bits and pieces of himself…
within the lines of my words
He eavesdrops on my heart
hoping for glimpses of nostalgic memories of a past long buried
seeking to hear me whisper his name in my verses
He looks in my eyes, convinced it’s his reflection on my soul
mirror images of us in another reality unresolved
I ought to let him know for once that this poem is about him.

Maybe it is, maybe it’s not :)

~folasayo.

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Folasayo

Joined June 2009

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  • sandra22
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