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by Oladejo Abdullah Feranmi


The world forgets you. Then the world remembers you when you die and forgets you again. This, and everything you know is a burden. You grew up with a name pointing at your head already, you grew up living a life that is not yours. And you have enough things that you don't want but you keep them. The world is left with no space and you have your heart in your hands. Your body used to be yours until it was for someone else to love. Now you dress in nights and sit on moments to pass through you. Sometimes ago, you were in love to the moon and when you came back, you lost yourself to a star but maybe these are just wishes and you can't afford a cent for the well, maybe it's normal to make arts that digress people with questions; Are you well? You have painted your grief in so well and this is an art of the gods. When you point all your fingers at a poem and see them point right back at you maybe the mirror is just the calmest mind waiting to be troubled by the escape of dawn. And the sun walked right in front of you but you can't hold it. You forgot again, you have your heart in your hands.


Oladejo Abdullah Feranmi is a Writer, Haikuist and a Veterinary Medicine student from Nigeria. A Thomas Dylan Shortlist and A Pushcart Nominee, He reads submissions at Sea glass literary magazine and edits for the incognito press. His works are published in Gone Lawn, Hooligan Magazine and more. He tweets from;@tinybecomings


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