schmaltzy

I'm not happy with this poem because I don't feel I've captured my feelings about my bedside table, it feels a bit schmaltzy. But I'll post up my first draft and see if I can re-draft another time.

Smells like candles,

The darkly varnished wood.

A face scratched in at night

Keeps me company when sleeping

In my pale cold blue room.

The veneer cracks at the edges,

Show chipboard underneath.

My bedside table.

Books on top, a yellow lamp.

It doesn't creak like scary wicker.

I scratch my name in the deep brown wood,

Of my bedside table.