The Shelf

Fri, 11/06/2015 - 23:00 -- emiyl

I am not a poet

In fact I am an it

Yes an it, a thing, inanimate

Still here, constantly waiting to be used again

 

I am on a shelf, watching

As everyone else goes by

Only stopping if they need

Something off the shelf

 

On rare occasions when I am taken from the shelf

I feel like I almost have a purpose

Call it a grasp of incentive

Where I see a glimpse of a prosperous life ahead of me, I am not an it

 

Yet I always end back up on the dreary shelf

Why did you return me to this lonely life here?

But then I remember poetry is for people,

And I am just an it

 

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741