It cut upon itself and  paper bled ink,
Gagged raw, seeping slowly out.

It was a choice that was made, no longer
Wanting to be what was issued pure white.

Needing to be used, to feel a purpose
So It wept words, that flowed down.

Can something torn ever be what it was,
It wasn't meant to be flawless .

It was no longer pure, but it  bled word,
And it read, **authentic piece of ink.