EDITED!

I realized this needed context. In eighth grade this is the only type of poetry I was capable of writing. As a personal writing exercise, because I feel like I'm getting a little dry, I took an image and expanded it, giving it a context and a story. I'm not writing emo poetry, I'm exercising my writing style. (My favorite one in eighth grade like this was about the wind. Second favorite was a wooden cooking spoon.)


I am a spare couch in the next room.
Worn and faded, but hidden beneath a duvet cover.
The knowledge that I exist is comforting.
The fact that I am safely tucked away,
existing but not enjoyed,
is enough.

Somewhere there is a bright room, with
creaking floors and colorful walls.
A room where my patches match the paint.
My worn cushions are appreciated for their color, texture, and give.
And I fit.

This is of no importance, however.
What is important is that I am safely tucked away,
quietly hidden in the next room.
For you to have, if not to experience.