Thread. Poem by Brooklyn Decker

It's pulled, it's torn, it's burnt, it's cut,
Used once, and then into the darkness it is shut,
Until it's needed again, otherwise it has no purpose,
If it can't be used, it is of no service,
It has to be a certain color, certain way,
Because if its not perfect, it'd be thrown away,
Looped into a perfect knot, it has no choice,
Thrown again, without a second thought,
Judged by the appearance, otherwise shunned,
Thrown again, until they find another one,
The perfect one, the perfect size,
It's left in the darkness, and grown to despise,
Everything different from itself,
Because it'll never be used by anyone else,
Alone and forgotten in the bottom drawer,
Because what else is it to be used for?
It served for but one purpose and not it's done,
It was used for nothing else but fun,
in the darkness it lays,
Still to this very day,
I am that thread, you threw away,
Cut up, left, forgotten, till this very day,
And with that there is nothing else to say.