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A paper wasp
Is stuck on my bus.
She is whisked away from her nest,
Miles and miles away.
I watch her,
As she crawls across my hand.
She will never make the trip back,
I think,
We have gone too far.
I look at her,
And in pity,
I dab a bit of juice on my finger
For her to drink.
Jessica 1d
I don’t cry anymore
I don’t see the use of it
My emotions are as raw as sand paper
But I have crumbled them all in a drawer
Dates marked by tears that have dried
I don’t speak either
My words aren’t audible or safe
To so many ears that are invested in my destruction
I mumble and my eyes gaze to the floor
When they ask me how I am
And it’s like everything has been filed
Into the back of that same drawer
My tears, emotions, words
They are like
Pieces of intangible paper
They’re not money
But printed on the same thing
Wondering why
Says everything I don’t.
Sarah Flynn Oct 17
when I picked up my pen,
I wanted to write about
gray skies
and thunderstorms
and the sound of rain
and laughter
and splashing in puddles.

I wanted to write about
the hole he left in the wall
by the staircase,
and how it seemed so much bigger
than his fist.
I couldn’t believe he made such an impact
with one blow
before he walked away.
I couldn’t believe he made such an impact
by walking away.

I wanted to write about
cigarettes and smoke
and young men with blackened lungs
and why we love
the things that destroy us.

I wanted to write about
this numbness
and how I feel nothing
but everything
at the same time,
and how I’m not sure
which is worse.

I wanted to write about
your cologne
and your citrus-scented shampoo
and how the smell lingered
on my pillow
long after you left,
and how I found someone new
but still fell asleep
to the thought of you.

I wanted to write until
my fingers blistered
and began to ache,
and my demons fell
from my overflowing mind
and drowned in ink.

but when I picked up my pen,
I had shaky hands.

I sat there silently
and I trembled
and broke down
and let my tears fall,
and my thoughts did not stop
racing through my head

but none of them
managed to escape onto paper.
Paul Idiaghe Oct 10
here, time is a truck
with waxed wheels. but it
keeps pacing, keeps paving the path
to destruction; in dreams, I pluck

myself from its sheath, let it sweep
over me like a tide; on the
ground, I gather my garments,
as stones and seashells, slip

into their ethers, where eternity
waits. here, pyramids don’t converge
as they taper; they tunnel
like a lair that has lost its lucidity

& I’m wandering within their walls,
clueless, clouded—a captive child
eager to escape into enlightenment,
or another dream, where bliss befalls.

this is a paper-dream gobbling
reality—down to its
bone, bruised bare & bleeding.
Mikaela L Oct 3
Paper boat #1: gently folded like a dreadful hat, thrusted above the pond of a hand washing basin. Lost in plain sight.

Paper boat #2 : Different design, light push. The motor worked. Gone.

Paper boat # 3: Third time’s a charm ...  a ragged ball of paper. The **** thing floats, hurray!

We’d been making paper boats all afternoon. It was their idea; the lighthouse was mine. I placed an empty hand sanitizer on an edge of the basin. We pretended it was a lighthouse, it guided our barbarian sailor to a minute island. The sailor was quite talented, it was the ship that kept drowning him. We mourned his death twice and pitied our limited abilities a thousand times. All four of us in the bathroom, who would have thought I would end up like this ... making ill-fated paper boats
ce-walalang Oct 3
being stuck, they say, is uncomfortable.
i believe it’s not necessarily true. for instance,

...i like getting stuck inside my room and read for a day or two or three or four, forever.
...i like getting that last song stuck in my head for a day or two or three or four, forever.
...i like getting stuck in traffic with my pen and paper.
...i like getting stuck in the moment...perhaps, with you.

getting stuck is an opportunity, staying stuck is unhealthy

staying stuck on a single story out of convenience regardless of its completeness is poison mistaken for remedy
the reclusive writer tells us a good writing day
you are all paper dolls

that I made

you heart is so ******* white

the color of your fears
doll maker
Nylee Sep 30
who is the winner,
who is the loser,
ask the ashes, dust and paper.

the papers inked from history
what does it really tell.

the victor of half the world,
he had to surrender too,
who is the real victor
when the time came
and even the greatest empire fell!

A single word in history,
maybe not even that,
like losing identity
with a swish of a spell

Ink the story,
blue, black, deep
where I haven't even been
My ancestor's glory
won't keep the gleam
the light will fade off
the coming years will tell.

A select, an opportunity, a calling
it is coming with the wind,
but what does it really mean
what does it sell?

wise words,
and nothing, well!

No name for the fame,
a letter to begin,
but it is the end, expel.

My end, and yours
we'd leave the world,
leave behind our body
what of the legacy,
is there even one?
I'd be in places,
earth, heaven or hell

would it matter even,
I am going off empty hand
my hands that type won't accompany even.
Jonathan Moya Sep 25
There is a certain satisfaction that comes
with shrinking language and imagination
to a rectangle, fitting black-and-white
words into a prescribed length and width
given human depth through inscription.

The filled sheet of paper almost
transcends its smoothness and thinness,
its very blank expression and dullness.
It reveals exactly what it is meant to say
and the colors one wants to see in it.

Move the imprinted strokes up and
it becomes the verisimilitude of art;  
move the line down and there exists  
scientific equations in plain view;
give it power- and it becomes money,
an official stamp- and it’s the recorder of
birth/death and everything in between.

All of it can drift away if unbounded and
catch fire with the right or wrong spark.
John Ruiz Sep 25
Review your life in pages
shaving years off the stacks.
Lay curbside your bits and scraps
and tomorrow—
write yourself anew.
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