Paper-esque fingers drawn to the ink
Like a killer to a knife.
My body a yellowed piece, timely and crinkled
By the forgetfulness of a child.
Because every paper's wish is to be used,
To find life after death again,
I hope that the child uses me for good.
She is a seventh grader,
Her blonde hair just cut short.
Her mind is somewhere else,
Barely listening to the lecture that her
Instructor gives, and I feel it.
Her chewed fingers pull me from my depths,
And she writes a title.
Her first.
Him.
I've moved around a lot since that
Day, but the girl has never thrown me out.
Paper-esque fingers drawn to the ink
Like a killer to a knife.
My body a yellowed piece, timely and crinkled
By the warmness of a child.
Because now that I have been lucky,
I have found life after death again,
And I know I have been used for good.
YOU ARE READING
The Beginning To The End
PoetryI've never been a poet, that much is certain, but I can tell you that it does get written. A lot. These are the collections of my poetry I've written, and some of them hit hard for me.
