He had a gun in his hand,
pointed right at my chin.
‘Throw away everything you faggot’
Around 20 bucks and some pages with scribbled shits and a wrist watch from my mother,
I gave him.
The night was bleeding from it’s uterus.
He took away the money and the watch but the pages he passed.
He didn’t need the shits, for he was already the best poet ever.
He danced through the woods,
and I went with the music of slayed nights.
I just wish he had the courage to pull the trigger and make me a poet too.