This wasn't what he'd expected, since a wee little one,
       contorting the edges of fallen wood made thin.
What was rectangle became a triangle,
           what was just plain became more.

No fingers were used, a mind is a wonderous thing,
                                 Never wasted on this little one.
    
Creation, Imagination, as parchment clean crisp,
contorted to conception. But when it went wrong
            it rained snow flakes of ruptured imaginings,

Jagged and torn, papercutting those close.

Tears fell from his eyes as sorrow for skin bleed
not deep, but any more would have been a torment.

A thousand papercuts from a moment of
            frustration could turn paper crimson.

From that interim, knowing the power paper
had, be it words shapes, meaning.
       Learning that contours have potential and
wording on it was a powerful influence on others.

So began his journey as origami butterflies
             fluttering around him, calmness followed.
            Here child, as he handed a swan, and it swam
upon the innocence of there hand, and he walked onward.

It's best on the carpet
kneeling over clippings

vogue magazines and
national geographic
******* from some early year

I cut them up and paste them

sense of control
of placement

tall cotton socks
two-dimensional
nothing digital
shapes in shapes

any way I like it

torn edges
blue paper
make waves
for imaginary boats

capture a memory
a moment

in a scene you can hold
make your own

what could be better than that?

She drew arrows on paper
Thin lines and angles
Head to hand, table to elbow
A neat triangle

In lue of a sun
The rises in a triangle
A piece of fruit
Over the simu Himalayas
Harolding
The day
And
The best time
For pictures.

Drawing pictures,
is graphite make-believe.
You can bring life,
or darkness.
Are you god?
Do you have control?
Scribbles, judgments,
of squares, circles
and unhappy faces.
Crumble up,
the paper tightly.
Throw away, let go.

Maybe its time,
To start over.

Knee slap, diaphragm control,
living room, bass boosted,
ceiling fan casting an X shape,
blonde locks, same songs,
robots & girl futura,
love, ***, existence,
drugs, dancing along
if you find the nerve.
How do I put this
compact view into words?
Fleeting, farewell,
at large, unheard.
What is it that you deserve?
Whatever your meat
tape, twisted, desires.
What is love to me?
To be, at all, near or beside you.
Tragic for me, as millions,
lessons learned eventually
maybe learned too late.

Have you ever thought about how inconsequential we are
Less than single grains of sand in the hourglass of time
If any of us were to die the stars would still shine and the Earth would still spin
Anyone who says we matter because we impact the people around us are the biggest liars of all
Even everyone you've ever know still equal nothing in the grand scheme of things
Afterall...
We are just shapes

The shapes your memories are
Inevitable,
inescapable.

like the pouring rain
when the skies turned grey,
when the clock turned to 4 o'clock
when those songs resonated.

They got creeping in my mind,
they weree running in circles
and no point at all.