Just because I have nothing Smart or pretty to say, Does this mean that My very composition Is worthless? I ask the question Because when I look around At my neighbors, The other poems, I can see that they Are all made up in metaphor and Dressed to kill with their Long, flowing verse and Strong, handsome words. Each one of them, A thing of beauty; Something for their parent To be very proud of. The kind of poem that Takes on the world head first and Displays it's life affirming charms For everyone to see. I know, that what I have to offer is Not so pleasant to look at. I am an ugly, shriveled thing with No cute turn of phrase or Clever way of description that Can force you to look At the life around you With virgin eyes. I am a bastard, Spit out through gritted teeth and Rejected just as quickly. My creator felt no joy At the moment of my birth. I am only allowed to exist Since my author had not The strength to abort me. I am the truth and The truth is, always, An orphan. © David Rutter 2013 Visit me at http://www.maxmundan.com/