Throughout past movements
of my blunted feather pen,
my mind has been
controlled by frustration.
Pages of depleted reams, litter
the cold stone floor
of this uninspiring shed.

Those pins of medals,
never make holes
in my sweat soaked vest.
No accolades are ever
thrown my way….

as I tried to see life
as a knotted ball of string,
make some sense
of it’s untidiness
and unravel
some great victory
in my naive soul.

Now, my face
as long
as a vets glove,
leaves me reading words
that simply return
to scratch and bite,
not fitting,
not rhyming, ….

not right.

Ian Bowen

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-poor-poet/