Shy, scared verses

Where does my poetry surface the best?

Where do my emotions aren't shy to come out?

Where does my poetry feel safest?
It seeks disposable scraps of paper,

Ruffled, frayed, crumpled chits of paper,--

An old bill of no use now;

some shopkeeper's calculating scrawl;

some time-worn receipts;

some redundant acknowledgments,

Anything that has no value anymore

to lay claim to something higher 

than some defeated verses.

My poems, my emotions' offsprings

seek these dustbinned items

and cling to them 

like autumnal dew clings to fresh roses,

Both are unrequired expressions

beyond monetary valuation,--

One of a petty task done,

The other just lost pieces 

of a necklace broken by time and people,

Both are floating around to cling 

to some similar worthless fragments.

The scraps and chits of paper look

eager to voluntarily enter their grave,

The verses avoid shiny, sleek pages

and well-bound diaries,

or a flower-bordered, fragrant paper,

or the shiny screen of a notepad,

or costly computer,

or a precious smartphone,

They are afraid of them, these verses mine,

Like a beggar scared of a palatial bungalow,

They seek poor quarters,

where they won't feel 

the shame of their nakedness,

where they can merge 

with the filth, squalor and misery,

They just need a poor quarter 

to hide and feel safe and alive,

They just need poor, soiled clothes

to hide their poor, pathetic body,

They merely seek something

that's of no use to humans,

Maybe they want to hide

even from their own self,

They are looking for things

that are even more valueless 

than the paper scraps in a dustbin.