She did not have soft hands
Her hands were red.
Her hands were a boneyard.
Her hands were tired.
But through all the folds and shapes
Out of her paper mistakes
She made cranes.
She made them for the people she loved
And sometimes, the people she hated.
The cranes stood in her favourite places
Or they marked “I would literally rather be anywhere else right now”.
A blue one for Portland
A red for Sanfransisco
Yellow for,
She stops.
He always said he loved the colour yellow.
Time withered on and she withered with it
Soon, she was gone.
And as if the people had nothing left of her
They wepped.
Yellow, he thought.
He looked up through his sorrows
A yellow paper crane
Peered about on a windowsill
What once blended in the crowd
Now stood out like treasure
Some say the paper cranes flew that day
She would have liked that.

you know what's creepy about humpty dumpty? they never said it was an egg
don't you dare sounds normal, but do not you dare sounds weird
envelopes are strange. its like here's a paper wrapped in paper that i sealed with my saliva
butter is food lotion
when you wait for the waiter you are the waiter

How much pain do I have go though until giving up is okay?

Every word we pen
             is an extension of self.
For we are a looking glass
                   on the world around us.
                                 Some times dark

others times woven in delight.

Never throw away your words,
           just change them.

Do not scrunch the paper up,
                 mould it to a paper aeroplane


and watch where your words soar too..

Paper endures everything – it is not silk.
A piece of paper in an envelope with a poem on it.
Diligent, handwritten,
Keeping simple thoughts.

Fourteen lines about the city,
Fourteen points back and forth.
Fourteen lines about ships,
Dashes, commas, crosses, zeros.

Looking in the eyes of Rumi
in the eyes of Shakespeare,
can we see their great poetry
that today like yesterday everywhere
the world has seen and admire?
Yet see the magic they pen on the paper!

Sometimes I watch the paper as it fills with words; much like an overflow of a cup
Pen ink spills onto the pages with words only to be read in a certain order
If read closely the true intentions are met
If not the words are incoherent and absolute *****
I do love writing with my face centimeters from the page
The words flow like waves and their radiance proves brilliance
Watching someone write shows their heart
Their true mindset
Watching their words curve is like following directions to a new world; one of which leads to the heart.

I
am the crumpled up
rough draft girl
in the wastepaper basket
corner of my mind

she is the file
I deleted
after too many red lines
changed her meaning

this is not my final draft
I will throw myself away
again soon