A poem by the dust under my bed

 I’m made of old skin and yucky stuff.

You can clean all day. It’s never enough.

I collect and clump. The havoc I create

absorbs your projected rage and hate.

With subtle poise I get up your nose.

You sneeze. You curse. A life decomposed.

I lurk. I linger. I’m a puffball of shame

that with your duster you think you can tame.

But I’ve got a special kind of knack

To outlive all threats of attack.

Mop, sponge or sucking vacuum,

I’m stubbornly stronger than a sweep of your broom.

So leave me be. Leave the dust to the dead.

For today, go out and be yourself instead.

2 thoughts on “A poem by the dust under my bed

  1. What a great first line! Aren’t we all made of skin and “yucky stuff”? I love it. “)

    I’m doing NaPoWriMo, too. It’s fun.

    • Thank you for stopping by my blog and for your kind comments. I am loving doing NaPoWriMo. It’s amazing how stimulating the everyday world becomes when I know I’m going to write a poem about it later.

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