Poet

The old photo frames,

With their tattered
Black and whites, still
Try to be relevant.

The fake plastic trees,
That sit in the showcase,
Mock the houseflies,
In an attempt to ooze life.

Dust ridden trophies
Looking down on the
Broken toys still seem
To be haughty and proud.

The dried flowers,
Stripped off of all fragrance,
Still peeking from the corner,
To lure the bees in vain.

And I'm sitting here,
Judging them all,
Trying to gather up all
Ill-fated words to prove..

That I'm a goddamn
Poet at last.