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
This poem is about:
Me