Throughout past movements <br />of my blunted feather pen, <br />my mind has been <br />controlled by frustration. <br />Pages of depleted reams, litter <br />the cold stone floor <br />of this uninspiring shed. <br /> <br />Those pins of medals, <br />never make holes <br />in my sweat soaked vest. <br />No accolades are ever <br />thrown my way…. <br /> <br />as I tried to see life <br />as a knotted ball of string, <br />make some sense <br />of it’s untidiness <br />and unravel <br />some great victory <br />in my naive soul. <br /> <br />Now, my face <br />as long <br />as a vets glove, <br />leaves me reading words <br />that simply return <br />to scratch and bite, <br />not fitting, <br />not rhyming, …. <br /> <br />not right.<br /><br />Ian Bowen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-poor-poet/
