Puddy tat

A poem about good intentions

I am a puddy tat
I catch my good intentions
in the garden of my mind
and lay them before your feet
so proud
but you say nothing and walk away.

Wounded, I bleed all over them.
'Look', I say, 'look!,
look how I bleed for you!'
but you are disgusted,
scolding me
'Stop doing that!'

I am a puddy tat.
Tell me what to lay before your feet
and I will climb the boundary fences of my mind
to fetch it for you.

(Is that what I am?
Am I just a puddy tat?)