The Falling Stars

⋆𝘗𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘉𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘴⋆

It seems as if, only days ago,

I was playing in the mud, rolling on the floor.

Tearing out pages, using every spare note,

To fold and form an uneven paper boat.

The tiny, unscathed hands of a child,

Fascinated by the faint fold-lines.

And her pride was about as big as her smile.

A princess, with a paper crown and sparkling eyes.

But papers crumple, if not handled with care.

And the smallest mishap will cause it to tear.

And crowns will be stolen, queens are overthrown,

The kingdom will soon have someone else on its throne.

But she was happy even as a maiden, in her little games.

A paper knife could never bring much pain.

And paper boats couldn't sink, even with broken masts, decks, sails and bows.

If there wasn't ever a sea that kept it afloat.

But the paper could only be so strong.

It possibly couldn't stop words for too long.

And the words didn't draw blood, only tears.

The tears wet her paper palace, and evoked all her fears.

Swords hurt more than paper ever did.

Gold crowns were heavier, and barely fit.

Diamonds were sharp and it was too clear to see,

A breaking girl behind the catastrophe.

The harsh world made her tough.

The unscathed hands are now calloused, blemished and rough.

The girl now folds her own heart in her spare time.

And uses her blood to ink down her thoughts, line by line.

But as the world moved, she grew,

With fading scars came fresh wounds.

And after all this time, she is left with her childhood's ghost.

And the lingering memory of folding a paper boat.

But the paper taught her that she wouldn't drown,

If she stayed clear of water all around.

So she stayed away from people, who might let her go.

And she stayed afloat- with broken masts, decks, sails and bows.

Paper is unfamiliar.

Swords and words are too similar.

And she can't be a maiden here, this isn't a game.

She has to rule her kingdom to have a name.

She built a palace of thorns over wet paper,

In hope that life would get better.

And the thorns made her forget the cruel world outside,

And pricked at the vast galaxy inside.

Gone are her memories of the simple days,

With an untouched heart and hands unscathed.

She found a way to survive.

The life she lives, so different from the lived life.

The thorns were mightier than any pen.

And made her thoughts fly faster than the songs of a wren.

That was the only way she could survive.

If paper was too weak to ink, her mind seemed just right.

She doesn't know the pattern anymore.

Her will to live has worked her sore.

She breathes through what she writes and escapes into what she wrote.

But she can no longer make a paper boat.

~LonelyComets

11.09.18

-----⋆-----  

(if you're reading this.... you are awesome and i love you :) )