“I attempt to be creative but all that comes out of my pen are mediocre poems”
Loneliness, failure, and being forgotten. These are things that people fear. But what about things, what do they fear? The saggy armchair fears that no one will sit in it again. That no one will rest their tired limbs on its velvety fabric that resembles that of stubble on a mans chin after not shaving for a week. It fears that the four little grandchildren who used to sit on its arms, that crushed them and broke them down, are no longer little enough to all fit on them at once. It fears that it won’t be able to comfort the frail, old man flipping through his yellowing wedding album to see his beautiful, dead wife wearing her wedding gown that was as white as his papier-mâché like hands are now. The saggy armchair fears that it will become so forgotten that it won’t be able to experience the wonderful sensation of scalding hot coffee being spilled all over its rich magenta fabric. That it won’t have the dust burned off, with the stain of use, of love and of purpose to replace it.