Aquinas May 18
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 virgin 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.
My tears,
And my blood.
My sweat,
And my soul.

All on paper.
For the world to see,
To experience,
To embrace.
Simra Sadaf May 11
wrapped in words,
scrawled on paper,
soaked in ink,
jotting down
chunks of my being.
Romann May 8
We used to go together like pen and paper.
But you ran out of ink, and ripped me apart.
I was pure and always present, yet I saw your care never
For all you wanted was to darken me to my heart.

And you succeeded. I was a shadow.
I crumpled myself up, and thought of hurting myself,
Scatter myself to the winds, burn me so.
But there was something you did not think of.

I am not alone. I never was, really.
As long as others will read me,
As long as they will understand my story,
I’ll have no need for your black calligraphy.

Now, I see the difference between you and me.
I never have ran out of ink, of love, of care.
On another parchment I shall write my story.
One that will not reject my art, my flare.

Care overwrote all the words you inscribed into me.
I wrote this poem for a friend of mine who was suffering from a bad breakup. It really hit her hard, and I wanted to help her out.
D A W N May 7
my lips were a pen
and so i wrote sonnets
on your paper hands
mk May 5
my tears are getting my paper mask soggy
too close for comfort, it sticks to me
i've tried so hard to find a mask that fits
but i end up with safety scissors and colored paper
cutting and crafting my own face for the day
wake up, brush your teeth, cut a fresh mask
it gets wet and torn by the end of the day
you throw it away
start all over again
once, my paper mask flew away
a flush of pink and a dash of red
what do you use to cover up
the colors that speak so loud?
grow up, grow into the mask you made
grow up, grow into that role you play
don't tell him you miss him
don't tell her you hurt so much
the masks smile and they flutter
in the rain, in the fall
one day, you realize
you don't know yourself at all.

my paper mask never fails me.
things get better, only to get worse.
Vexren4000 May 2
A space set out before me,
Blank with the bright snowy electronic white.
A mechanical canvas,
Made of pinpoints of light,
Hopefully we will never lose,
The sight of a normal,
Blank piece of paper.

E McNamara May 1
Stop trying to cut and glue
The parts of me that
Disagree with you
I'm not picture perfect
Or a pristine garden
I'm not always pretty
Sorry but, construction paper
Won't fix that and
I don't want it to.
Flaws are what makes us human. Do not take that away from me.
Jolan Lade Apr 28
It is the pen and the paper, backspace and eraser, that makes this place better.
MJ Apr 27
She has a drive
to share
her body

Right to


been an over-

sharer, everyone says.

Swollen lips and
scarred skin,

All of that



right in
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