Dead. Dead I say. That's what it is,

Leaking on the paper, black, ink, blood,

Another one left to gather dust,

Finished, done, and I really should

Throw it in the bin,

But it's been here a while,

Done a good job,

Went the whole mile,

Scratching out words,

Poetry and prose,

So to join the others,

In the drawer it goes.