DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, insult salted the injury--- that was a bad day<
maybe wounds are sold do you mean that insult can't salt injuries to a pathetic fault? warn the poor never the guilt as it wish the idiotic I put the limit stepped the humiliation right out silenced like a charity drought now lacked it is yet still manageable killed in the **** core when tangible warn foolish fingers an incoming the tremble syndrome now secrets are whispered blind devils shrink in hinders a car ride rains a billion on a thinker watch me tested as God demands lost in translation for what a paper does and I simply don't understand take the gesture I can't for a billion pays you see made me squirm more like a forsaken sun in 2018
White, longing to be stained. Blank, lacking character, hoping one bestows you a name. Lined, and confined 8 11, words shall make you free to fly and soar straight into heaven. A juxtaposition, your very being has attained Words defined and combined, Paper's Poem shall be yours;
It becomes soggy and wet The paper starts peeling off Flimsy and weak It starts to leak The kids chewing around the rim The teens filling them to the brim I take a small sip from my cup In my throat, I feel a lump Playing with the paper peels that fell off Under that layer, the paper fibres feel soft The cup is my only friend here My vision begins to smear I wish I could just disappear ~21/5/21
There is something about a blank paper That makes you slightly sad. The exciting thought of potential. The beauty of the sheet. The thoughts that race through your mind That you wish to write. But if you don't have a pencil If you don't have a pen Then that paper will only ever be blank. The cold lonely sheet of paper, Which no pencil has kissed. No hand has traced. No pen has met, Will never be what it should. A story. A song. A picture there. A Poem. A riddle. Not a word, or letter there will be Upon that piece of paper. The empty take upon this land That is whispered to and from That is you cannot read You also cannot write. If you cannot write Then you won't give that paper The opportunity To live.
I write because... I can bleed onto something pure with no judgment or shame, it does not seek to heal my wounds nor does it yearn to wipe my tears it accepts my flaws and imperfections and allows me to paint my sorrows to say my words to feel my pain.
At the end, it is changed forever no longer pure no longer blank, it carries the burdens of my world with no guilt with no judgment with no shame. And so I write...
In their paper skin Under the burning sun Smile the paper flowers In bracts, pink and white purple or orange Colourful red, never fade or bleed Evergreen in their woody homes They fly with the wind In their paper skin