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Penny's Lament
Often I feel like I’m
Worthless,
nothing more than something to
take up space, to
be inconvenient, to
waste someone’s time looked for when I’m needed.
I need to be
looked for in the bottom of a
purse
under a bed
inside pockets
as a poor man’s last resort.
My only
Worth-
while attribute is the satisfying little plop when I
hit the water of a mall fountain,
or
what I like to call,
my glorified graveyard,
only taken back when the
youthful grave robbers take me out of my
hole.
I’m passed around hastily
found easily
given away like I’m
Worthless.
At least
close to it.
I rust and I
mold and I
sit at the bottom of a jar
waiting to become useful to one day.
I get dropped and only I have the
fortune of being looked at and wondered,
“Is it worth it to go back and get it?”
(Spoiler alert: Probably not).
Even a man
begging for money
would scoff at me.
Whatever happened to “beggars can't be choosers”?
I guess rejects don’t apply.
So much for being lucky, huh?
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