I am a third drawer poet

Your poems caress the paper
with crashing, luxurious words,
I scar it permanently in comparison with
my botched un-educated turds that
I think pompously will change
the way that humanity lives;
in fact, in truth
even my own mother doesn’t
stick it to her fridge.

It finds its way
into the third kitchen drawer
the one full of half things;
the stuff you can’t quite
admit to yourself
to put straight into the bin.

Next to the plug
with the fuse missing
my sentiment deserves the dark;
covered in dust and telephone numbers
wrapped around batteries she’s not sure
if still work.

Gradually my magnum opus fades
along with the paper and ink,
covered in drops of unexplained mayonnaise
that manage to bleach out
the one worded best bit.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

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