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I am what people expect me to be-
A paper crane in the never-ending rain,
A silk handkerchief folded into parts,
A broken vase with no flowers in it,
An elephant walking on a tightrope.
I ‘m what seems like soft edges,
But don’t make the mistake of believing that.

My paper skin cuts,
My silk finds its way to your neck,
My broken pieces are the reason I am whole,
And my weight only brings down people like you.
Don’t you ever make the mistake of thinking otherwise.

You haven’t seen the storm,
You haven’t witnessed the terror,
The horror,
The lives lost,
And the homes broken.

I have cultivated my being for years,
I am who I choose to be.
nightdew Dec 7
you are nothing but the cause of blood on my fresh wounds.
i am nothing but the cause of your fatal demise on paper.

but you didn't just cause bleeding,
but i didn't just cause your demise on paper.

funny how things come to be, my love.
dab on that wound with alcohol
Marno T. Rupert had nothing to lose, or so he thought as he sat on the moon. He held he breath. He didn't want to die so soon.

Marno T. Rupert had only gotten his powers about an hour or so ago. What he didn't know is though the river flows so slow up unto this point he grew so small.
The waterfall slows his fall but, Marno T. Rupert learned nothing at all.

He jumped back to earth to examine his worth.
He felt lonely, being the one and only under the sun... the only son of a gun who got super powers.

Marno T. Rupert could jump over towers, but he felt like he wasn't particularly great or good.
He always was late and misunderstood.
He didn't like "fate" or his neighborhood.

And so...
He went back home.
He zipped his lips.
After all, Marno T. Rupert was a pacifist.

He decided to become a scientist, a friend to society even though he could throw a car for miles and meanwhile bounce bullets off his chest.
You see?
He was super but a man.
Changed his brain and used his pen.
Just a first draft of a poem I wrote at work. 12/6/18.
Iska Dec 6
I feel as if I have paper skin
Fire for eyes and water
that swirls And sloshes inside.
And the water is rotting my moldy skin as it begins to douse the fire within.
Emma Dec 4
I test the nib of the fountain pen against my finger,
Testing its sharpness, its edges.
Then I place the point against the pale moonlight of my flesh,
And push it slowly between two ribs, skin parting reluctantly.
I carefully work it deeper into the hole created by the head, the nib disappearing into the red secrets of my insides,
Rivulets of blood running past the smooth black edges, designed to be gripped comfortably, ergonomically while writing,
Red falling down past the grasping circle of my white skin.
The tip ****** my heart, still beating too slowly, too wounded, and with a twist blood fills the compartment made for ink.
I am made of paper white and ink black anyway.
I sometimes really wish
if night could talk,
I could then barely share
the worst held back stories under complete darkness.
Sophia Nov 28
you give me paper cuts
small, yet deep
and i still happily,
bleed for you.
Aaron Elswick Nov 28
Kyra, Dad's got some paper and pens
and that's it
A cup of tea at 1am'll
push him just a little bit further
to finish all of his scrawl
about the things in the world you deserve
and how he'll go get it all

He'll push the pen to the page
at an age that you can't read or write
But it's more about holding himself accountable
to the crawling days

and if your smile stays
at least he'll know he did some things right

By the time you read this
you'll be learning how to doggy paddle
Through swimming pools full of stuffed animals, on tuesdays
And on days that start with "S"
You'll be air lifted in a fairy costume
to the civic center
so we can see the what's it's on Ice

And i promise I'll stop smoking

and at night you'll have a team of interpretive dancers
teaching you and your 9 ponies the classics
in a better way than I can tell em...cuz I have this whole monotone thing...that I do

But I'll be there the whole time
to try to fight back the impulse I feel
to steer for you on every step, and miss step
Because I know you won't forever need me here
You been the freest spirit, since the day we first met.

And if you're reading this and I'm bald
maybe take it easy on me....I'm pretty sensitive about it.

By the time you read this,
I'll have put the work I needed in
to pay whatever school to teach you everything you wanna know

and I promise I'll quit smoking
and I promise I'l never make you feel like less than everything to me

and though your father may have been a failure when he found you
The sparks that you emitted through his heart that night,
with fingers wrapped around his thumb,
erupted seas of roaring flame around his very soul
bolstering a furnace to replace the heart you stole
the foundry drove his will that night
and has done ever since,
even when all he does have
is paper and some pens.
Wrote this as I was coping with a divorce, and my daughter was very young (8ish months).
I lay on my back and I opened up to you,
Like a book lying on its spine.
It’s pages spread apart,
You rubbed the coarse paper in between your fingers,
Sliding down the edges even though you knew you would get a paper cut.
You turned the pages ever so softly,
Careful as to not let a crease happen.
My soul danced around your fingers,
My body shook beneath the words you whispered to me,
I spilled my secrets like the jumbled words on white sheets of spilled ink.
I was your novel and I couldn’t be more happy to let you construct the sentences of our slow,
600 page book.
Can I be the protagonist of your story?
Johnny walker Nov 18
Poetry to me, you put some
words on a piece of paper
then like a conundrum
you keep rearranging the
words until a poem Is
That how I write my poetry
If I get writer's block just do
the same write some words
or even just one
concentrate words or word
till something develops no
matter how long It
An Insite to how I write my poems a few words on a piece of paper keep rearranging
them like a conundrum till a poem Is born
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