Junk

I know I cant compare
To Maya Angelou or Baudelaire
You will not find me
On the shelf
With them or those that make you
Feel
You want to rent your clothes
With such despair and weep
With grief you cannot bear
I am replete
With simple diction tight and neat
My poems are junk
Someday be buried with me
Meek
Like Hallmark cards
Not fit for lounge rats in a bar

Written by Sara Fielder © 2012

poem by Sara Fielder
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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