It's a shame really.... how much paper I've wasted on you.
how many time's I've sat in my room in the late hours of the night replaying everything you did to me.... everything we did to each other.
how I bleed on paper, pouring out the deepest corners of my soul to the only thing that will listen.
still it is a shame how I continue to waste words, paper and ink on you.... how I manifest great sentences to describe how you hurt me.
you don't deserve them, you truly don't deserve anything I've given you, but even after your gone I still manage to sacrifice pieces of myself for you.
I'll sit and waste hour's on something that's supposed to be beautiful.... but you made painful.  
I guess in a way, I hold a pen like you never held me....

What is this thing called poetry?
Is it words on paper,
Lined up nicely,
Rhymes assembled tightly?
Or is it a little deeper than that,
Is poetry a feeling?
A little flutter in your heart,
An echo in the fabric of your soul.
Maybe it's a small candle spark,
Flitting in the dark,
As you sleep peacefully.
So what is this thing we call poetry?

Mencius, what is that they're doing?

Zhǐ! Another immortal walked from the sea;
Leaf & cordage finely chopped,
Throughly masticated & combined,
Left to the air to then reside
And collected after dried.
How most strange & curious!

You say the nobility call this parchment,
But for humor as irony
And because of the sound made
During the process of hammering,
The craftsmen call it paper?
And, like with tattoos,
They use pastes & fluids like dyes & resins
To stain drawings, shapes, and characters?

The lesser the weight of tablets,
Well-traveled with, easily read & clearly,
Markable with ease; readily inviting change
After change, reflecting our fragileness & resilience, offering record of our thoughts & accomplishments, a chance for the more prolific scribe and the library diverser & denser?

How wonderous a creation,
How gifted the craftsmen,
How genius the inventors.


Wow. That was so long ago
Before I was born.
But then compared to much else,
This fledgling has yet to have flown
From the small enclaves it nests as home.

The solider’s ‘sorry’s
A writers cries
Drown the world in tears
Fear fills our hearts
The apology buried in fires

Blank pages
Scattered brain
Even greater scattered words
Slurry falls out of my skull, into my mouth
Like tumbled rocks
Schrödinger’s paragraphs
Both written and not
Until I decide to sit down
Pen in hand
Pencil in hand
Paper staring
Blankly
Eyes staring
Blankly
Scattered brain
Even greater scattered words
And thoughts

A fateful night,
I was restless,
Sleep fleeting my young eyes.
So I rose from bed,
And to my desk I sat.
My pen curled in my fingers,
I wrote.
I wrote of a girl,
Made of spare paper,
And discarded ink.
But never did I guess,
My writing would come true.
Yet come next morning before me lay,
A paper girl with inky eyes.

Let the paper remember everything I ought to forget.