Wallflower

Out there, in the open

You feel so medium-sized

Not worthy of the bricks

Not worthy of the paper

Just a semi-solid, malleable

Better-off-leaving kind of character

But you stay, blending in a corner

Believing it could swallow you up

Make you part of it; what a concoction

Sadly, mixtures are for boozers

Painters, lovers in the night

And the like

You’re none of these things

You’re a whiny poet

What good can you do?

You give nothing to

A rehab clinic

The puckered art world

A woman, melting in your bed

You’re just a wallflower

Beaten the shit out of

By yourself
For being as such