They crouch in the corner of my eye,
as wicked and tricky as shadows.
Their spines arch
like furrowed brows.
Wrapped in whimsical metaphors,
such rags fail to conceal
They are Peter Pan poems;
they refuse to grow up!
Older brothers and sisters
look down on them
with superior smiles.
These poems' eyes are white
like a page - poised for a pen,
as empty as a mourning womb.
They are selfish, selfish
and scuttle with clumsy rhythm.
I knock their greedy hands from my face.
Although I am no Frankenstein,
I will not abandon my children.
No, one day I will return to them
when they have a little more skin
on their bones.