Am I really that disposable?
Am I so easy for you to just crumple up and throw away?
You scribble your notes and doodles and little hearts onto my blank page.
Only to later toss me into the away.
Then you run out of paper,
And you go dig through the trash and unravel me,
Then you scribble some more notes onto me,
Only to throw me away yet again.
How can you do this to me?
Do I mean nothing?
I'm there when you have no other paper,
But yet you don't want me.
Do all those notes and scribbles mean nothing?
I see how it is.
But now the page is full,
I'm torn to bits,
Sitting in the trash.
YOU ARE READING
Insomniac Thoughts
PoetryWould someone like to make me a cover? #1 in #poemcontest Some poetry I write, please do not copy or steal any of this I wrote it myself. So if you see the same poem somewhere else outside of my account then tell me please. warning my poems are not...
