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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

                                                          ­         ------ravenfeels
pcb 2d

Paper scraps, paper love, paper folds.

All these adjectives written on papers—
and my thoughts remain scattered and perplexing.

Paper planes, paper boats, paper dreams.

I pour my true feelings
disguised in various linings
because, in the end,
even the most heartfelt words on papers are eventually scattered,
accidentally stepped on,
and, slowly,
Should I just let you know?
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;

The Unclean, mine.
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
Cole Aug 2019
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.

FC Azaele May 10

There's crumpled papers, ripped apart
teared to shreds
lying scattered on the floor

I've been here all day
trying to fold and fold
paper, over and over by itself
My hands are starting to get sore

Floating paper mache's
near the water, too been there all day.
Paper crane, where are you going?
don't leave me here in this disarray

Paper icicles, piercing as it might.
all paper
the village, the people, the cars
So lovely.

A land of peace.
Dare be no fright

I loom over the sight
I shaped this all! Might i be pleased

oh this feels so right

A paper village
I created, oh what a sight! -
Paper faces, wearing a mask
on a parade

don't leave me now
not ever
as you go on and celebrate today
your lands will only grow bigger

All will be okay.

So long you don't wash away,
nor flee the village
i'd shaped
in the center of this disarray

Sal AK Apr 28
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...
LC Apr 28
ink flows out of my brain
through my blood vessels
to my soft fingertips.
my hands curl into fists
as I crumple a sheet of paper.
a corner lightly cuts my finger,
and the ink flows onto the page.
#escapril day 27!
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
on white paper
the ink sheds itself,
destroys all voidness,
writing appears,
something is read,
after your death you send it,
to the living
to always be told
from generation to generation.
Indonesia, 14th April 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
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