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The Poet
She watched him closely, trying to study him. The way he put on a façade so no one could see the real him. In class he acted out, slamming the teacher and pulling out small books of matches to play with. But he changed in poetry class, like an emotional switch had been flipped from despicable to precocious. He watched the teacher talk, soaking up all the knowledge with bright, luminous eyes. Then the bell would ring and he’d bring out his bravado side and she couldn’t help but feel sick. On the streets outside of the school yard, his vulgar language could be heard, loud and clear. But, she would always know who he was.
He was a poet.
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