The Shelf

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