Unwanted Poetry

I am like hidden verses of unwanted poetry
like blots and blotches and ink stains
 and out of focus photos
nobody really takes a closer look if the first glance doesn’t grab you
I don’t have slick packaging 
at best it bears the “used but adequate” label
there are tricks that I just find too much trouble
like photographing food with varnish and toothpicks holding pearl onions up perkily
my verses may be uninteresting to some
like a cardboard box or a plain white sheet
but there is a castle
or a rocket ship ready to burst out in the right hands
that cardboard box can take you
can make you
verses of unwanted poetry
 are nomadic
for words are social creatures and move about together
and a plain sheet languorously rolls out offering itself to be 
penned scrawled splashed across 
smuggled out of the recycling bin and nailed onto a wall
and so becomes
reinvents itself
as a work of art
and I am too
 a work of art in the making
writing hidden verses of unwanted poetry in a language that I am creating as I go 



About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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