Wallflower

Shrinking in a corner

            pressed into a wall;

            do they know I’m present ,

            am I here at all?

Is there a written rule book,

            that tells you how to be –

            all the right things to talk about –

            that everyone has but me?

Slowly I am withering –

            a flower deprived of sun;

            longing to belong to –

            somewhere or someone.

                                                               -  page 31