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Star BG Dec 2018
My arms I fold around you,
like creases of an origami heart.

The paper glistens in the light.
The folds become alive with power.

My arms I fold around you
like creases of an origami bird
so we may fly away
in landscape of a Japanese song.
Have a collection of origami pieces
Rupert Pip Dec 2018
It’s the past that crafts
your origami heart.

Fold the page into a shape,
that makes you who you are.

Once folded it never quite goes back,
lines on the white, darkened to black.

You come out again from the dark
and I open the door.

Tear it up you shout
so you see it no more
I actually wrote this 4/5 years ago, dug it up the other day reading through old poems.
Toni Dec 2018
I’m folded up
Paper thin
So pretty to see
But delicate, frail
Until you fold me up
Into what you want me to be
Again, and again
I wrote this piece a little while ago while I was feeling a bit cornered and indecisive. It is also the piece I submitted for my request to join, and I’m glad I get to be a part of this community now. Thank you for having me!
Butch Decatoria Nov 2018
These creases of ours:
Tales of dragons and white ships...
Neatly folding sheets.
Nigel Finn Nov 2018
This scrap piece of paper
Could have been a plane
But, instead, it's a poem by me;
Not burnt into vapour,
Folded like a crane,
Or anything else it could be.

This scrap piece of paper,
Now scrap more than ever,
Because I have added these words,
Which now start to taper,
Because I'm not clever
Enough to write of paper birds.

This scrap piece of paper
Has no more left to give
Apart from the next three forced lines;
It won't save the tapir,
Teach you how you should live,
Or help you pay old parking fines.
This poem was (quelle surprise!) originally written on a scrap piece of paper.
unnamed Jul 2018
Dead, it’s dead.
Crafted pale, rough paper,
And it’s dead.
A new born yet immobile,
A silent structure.

Dead, but it has a head.
Slightly curved, pinched cheeks,
But it’s dead.
Wide wings yet tiny bodice,
An art carrying Alice.

Dead, and it’s red.
****** winged, folded paper,
On all feathers it bled.
Imagination has it flying,
Leaving traces of men false hoping.
First official Poethree entry
Poetic T Apr 2018
He loved the texture beneath his fingers, contorting folding
it into intricate forms. What was singular undefined,
now had purpose other than what it was before.
He would tear it clean, not displaying its violation that
its purity had been contaminated.
Weaving imagery into a form from what was a newly
developing formation. His thoughts were now as seen
before the eyes, yet when he was finished the beauty before
his eyes lingered for minuscule moments.

Then with the lighter fluid he would caress its form subtly
with this liquid, where once ridged edges they now wept in
collapsing embodiment of the features that defined its complexity.
And with but a finger and thumb, what could have been,
what was before him. But now struck igniting like
a momentary sun, a match lingered as if he was teasing this
inanimate object that feared neither its creation nor its demise.

He waited till it descended like a coffin knowing it was
about to be snuffed out from existence feeding on the
nourishment of this splinter until he felt it crave the flesh
which held upon it. Casting it on his creation,
it was dominated instantly in a flame that gorged
on its new found nourishment. Within moments his creation
and light were expended from this moment and all that
lingered in its place was a pile of grimy ash.

Where beauty had stemmed into creation, now there was
nothing but scarring of what was once adorned in this place.
He looked upon the world as unconditioned edges that
needed smoothing out in his own ideological view of the world.
To his eyes all was rough thoughts, and even more evading
unsymmetrical reflections of what needed straightening out.
Utilising his passion for formation he delved into the creation
of humanity, and with his still hand he decided to appreciate the
human form.

How with subtle tweaks it could be contorted in too a formation
of intricate beauty, not the stale silhouettes that graded his
sight, every motion like drones of imperfection.
He had to see what a rough endeavour would bear.
Either fruit, or a piece of artistic endeavour that would lie
crumpled disowned on the floor below.
It wasn't as easy as he had anticipated the cuts sublime but
flesh tethered to oblivion is nothing, and with each laceration
it became more of a farce than of creation.

He In frustration even though they had whimpered out there
last plea hours before he lunched at this vacant tapestry
ripping into it with the frustration, expelled source material
all over his being. He knew that this was collateral damage,
and for beauty to be formed there were going to be some
cuts that were to deep to mend. So with a sullen heart,
he cradled this fallen realization,that he needed to heed his own thoughts.

He put it in an old shopping trolley and ignited this fallen work, 
standing there feeding the congregation of two opposites.
What once was, now soot on charred grass below.
And to grade himself in books on contorting flesh and anatomy.

Needing ways that he could numb and silence flesh,without losing
the spark that wielded such beauty as it still breathed,
helping him with his creational form.
Time was evident on his further attributions, he had learnt as
one should in future accomplishments. One should learn from
past errors (mistakes) and the first was an abortion of realization.
He needed to find the inclination point where it would be how
his vision needed to be climaxed into form.

With this he had constructed a square metal frame with
segmented stages. Where he could divert this form from
humanity to his desired form.
He could not have just anyone, types or stereotypes.
One may ponder where his persuasion. Not overly skinny
or bigger proportions. For they would either tear from
the strain, or unable to contort to the desired and needed
formation of his vision that needed form.

But patience is a virtue and though it took time, he was able
to attain the needed instruments of creation.
Time was the essence he pondered, and it worked.
The frame was adjustable to expand or decrease the needed
distance and form. Now ready, so much time had passed,
but perfection isn't a clock that stays still, perfection is a movement
of time gradually showing us the motion of before now and after.

His untorn pieces, needing those of no tattoos, of no piercings.
As this would blemish his art, and either contort of split in a
time utter most delicate movements. His fingers were static
his mind as sharp as his tools to motivate this intricate
melody. He wore a ceremonial mask, as this wasn't something
to be taken lightly respect for the form and that of who
was being given this opportunity. In the background soft
instrumental music to expand his muse.

Knowing now where cuts would not induce the death of
this piece. Realizing a wrong furrow could just subjugate
this to a crumbled mess, no longer useful to him or life.
Bones were bent over time so not to break, but to contort
to his new form. Drips hung like tears, feeding the will
to live, even though they wanted to die. He furthered this
creative moment, finding himself smiling underneath
his mask.

Feeling alive again, this was his moment of creative mastery.
He started to peel flesh, this had to be in one sitting due to
the delicate time frame. What was pliable would become brittle
in form. ruining what had taken months to achieve.
The system he had set for this moment, a fine spray of
antibacterial moisturizing seeds of mist. Tt just the right level
so not to make the flesh tear or dry out and break.

It was finished, his art was realized. Now he had to display it.
But as with all creations an audience was needed.
So he cradled it gently, knowing this location would be vacant.
Calling the press on a throw away phone.
He called it, "Human Evolution" even thought it was
anything of the sort. And as cameras flashed, the world saw
his creation. And the horror of his mind contorted from reality.
On what fulfilment was contorted from perfection to this
origami muse of humankind.

Tears of Joy littered his hands, his fingers now shaking with
the anticipation that what was now done, could be done again.
When the news faded and where skin was folded,now there
was just a person. A contorted remembrance of what
humanity can achieve. Tears flow like floating paper boat
on a stream, this one hasn't sunk yet. But this was one of
many creations to come, for what is the body if not art
to be gazed upon.
nycteris Mar 2018
each fold i forget
my troubles.
each crease satisfies
my obsessive tendencies.

every perfect creation
pushes me to make more.
they pile on my desk
and float down.

graceful little birds
hit the ground.
little sailboats sink
to the bottom of the sea.

overflowing desk
spilling into a mess.
cannot stop beautiful perfection
as my hands move beyond comprehension.
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