Folded and torn, yet you still play with it.
There’s not much left in the hazy hue you haven’t crumpled to death.
Do you like the vibration of the grains under your fingertips?
I’m sure the overlapping lines must get in the way of that sensation,
but still you trace every ****** polygon as if you were the embodiment of the proverb “if it ain’t broke, why fix it?”

Throw me out.
What use am I to you?
I’m the origami rock you can’t bring yourself to toss with the moldy leftovers you never cared for--even before they were leftovers.

“Ain’t that just the way?” you say to an audience of a mirror,
hoping a prophet will descend to correct you if you turn out to be wrong.
You’re so stuck in your ways, folding your papers and crumpling each piece until it’s unrecognizable from its original state.
For a progressive you’re quite a pessimist,
but at least you still have paper to fold with its woody grain you trace with your thumbs.