The pitcher, it sits by, alone on the shelf
for the thing it was built for, it lacks in itself
It has on its side, but one single crack
and thins thing alone is what now holds it back
And I like the pitcher, am too in this plight
of life without purpose, and cast to the shelf
to wonder and ponder what it is I must do
to keep holding on, and to keep pressing through
And I, like the pitcher am a strange sort of lout
Being here, all alone, with no one to draw out
the use that i in me, the use now to see
what I can do somehow, what I can now be.
But until someone does this I’ll sit on the shelf
like the sad, lonely pitcher, I am, by myself
Poetry
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