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Eggs

Under soft sun you make eggs in the morning.
It's distressing me how little you look at the pan.
Wrapped up in amber, and tangents about something or other.

Perched on the kitchen counter, spatula as a microphone,
You sing a song that I wish I had written.
I try to look bemused, away, anything other than charmed.

Leaving behind some way I thought I should be,
We dance, barefoot on the tiled floor.

These eggs are burned to shit.
I've heard that gives you cancer.

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Jacob Keating is a recent graduate working in a Waterstones—studied audio engineering and wrote his diss on guitar amps. He started writing poems because he was beginning to find songwriting somewhat restrictive (fitting to melodies and rhyme schemes). He has been shopping his writing around the open mic nights of Leeds, which has been going well!

Since submitting this poem he has started working on a longer piece of fiction attempting to expand on traditional character studies by exploring the character's different possible futures.