Fold me like you always have,
Run your nails to set the creases,
Shape me to the form you crave,
Bend me into the art of your wishes,

My form forever yours to toy with,
I conform to your will and desire,
Expose my surfaces, above or beneath,
I will always be there for you to admire,

I can be flexible or I can be stiff,
That depends on what you want,
I am here to help fill your rift,
The one who says you can when you can’t,

Craft that which you seek of me,
I am but your art, your origami.

when i was younger, i still remember
the armor was hard and bright
people wondered the strength and weight it bore
but never thought to look for more

they spoke of legends in iron and bone
of the battles it faced and feared alone
in reverence, they told of its might
yet forgot the man who lived inside

Can I be the poem,
not the poet—
not the hands that shape the lines,
but the breath within them?

I wonder if I could live
inside the pauses—
where the meaning stretches,
but doesn’t need to explain itself.

Let me be the ink,
not the pen but the flow—
without the pressure to know where it shall go,
or why it curves here and stops there.

Can't I just exist in the margins,
in the spaces left open,
just being the poem,
not the poet?