Writing Poetry

Always somehow ripped

at the corners, wrinkled

down the middle, and looking

like day old coffee

stains have more weight

than the words on the page.

Printed again, it still turns

out the same, so I leave

it there, on the corner

of the desk to soak

in early morning rays and

to whisper to me, though

I turn away and sip my coffee,

tired of its dusty words.

I am you, it taunts, with its stains

and wrinkles, rips and fades.

And knowing the words on it have never

lifted it past the desk, no one

has said yes, yes, but only no,

its torn corners wait, and I rest

my coffee mug upon it, leaving

an uneasy circle across my words.Image