Grasping my pen, i ground myself.
I start to breathe as the nib glides across the canvas.
The ink drops, forming lines, curves & more,
Breathing life into the paper,
My heart starts to beat,
giving me a sense of life.
As i form,
Letters into words,
Words into sentences,
Sentences into paragraphs,
As i try to graph, illusions into reality.
Trying to cling on,
To the little glimer of HOPE,
That you provide me NOW & THEN.

I'm a stain.
My life and personality is just a stain
I'm ink across the paper
of society.

I'm red.
I'm always angry at something or someone
And yet I'm always smiling and laughing
along with their insults.

I'm not broken, people just want to erase me.
I'm not supposed to be here, they say.
My type of weird
Is unacceptable to society, they say.

But each one of us is a different color
spread across this paper, no canvas
that is society
each of us a stain, no a streak

A brush of personality no one else can have
Together we are beautiful
and no one is going to tell me
that I'm not beautiful without lying to themselves

and being the same only makes the painting boring

I am a piece of paper.

I have been cut down, and put through a mill.

I have been tossed by the winds, yet tethered to every word written upon me.

Words written in black ink, spelling in all capitals that I'm useless, and unlovable.  That I am in the way, and that when I am out of the way I am forgotten.

Words written in blood, saying that I have no reason to go on. I will never be accepted; that I am not enough.  

Words written in invisible ink saying that I will never be seen.

My paragraphs are blotted out, crossed through and rearranged by careless editors.

My crisp texture, and white color gives way to muddy boot prints.

I am rife with tears and crinkles at the hands of careless of writers.

I have been cut down, and put through a mill.

The truth is though...

I am a piece of paper.

I have many uses.

I can be your origami, a love note, or an airplane.

I can be an interesting article, or a beautiful story.

There, among the chicken-scratch and scar tissue, I have room to write my own words.

With caret marks I correct every word I
ever let define me.

My story isn't written on me.  The changes made to the words written on me are my story.

One thing this piece of paper has learned, is that you should never give people the power to write in
permanent maker what should only be written in pencil.

And you cannot control the whipping wind you whirl in, but you can be a page worth a second look.

We are all worth a revision.

You always waited for the moment
When the wind will come
And take you away

Like a paper crane

Gently dancing with the breeze
Flying far, far from me
You couldn't see
The tear on my cheek
But it's okay
It will dry

And maybe someday I to will learn how to fly