The world is the paper.
The torn corner is my world, my life.
It's my town, off the map, on the edge.
Broken, battered, unnecessary and useless.
Pathetic.
We can write all over it but
the more we do,
the less we see.
The less of a point there is
to that torn corners
already meaningless existence.
By the time
there's no more white space,
it's too late.
Another child dead, in the dirt.
An overdose due to a drug deal,
a fix
wrapped in a torn corner of
a sheet of notebook paper.
The dealer knows-
the rest of the fixes-
he throws it out of the window
as a perfect paper airplane
for the children on the street corners to find.
Candy,
they notice
the corner is missing.
It is worthless to them
but the candy is
priceless, precious.