Paper, poetry by Yves K. Morrow at



written by: Yves K. Morrow


I am paper
in the hands of a child.
You touch me
Your eager fingers
smudge my skin
until all that is left
is a window of a woman,
a tragic sliver of white
in an ever darkening room.

I thin beneath
your constant erasure.
What I was
and what I am
and imperfect.
My needs are
my nerves naked,
my heart fuzzy and grey.
I am merely a product
for your amusement.
You do not care,
you only do
that which comes easiest
to you.
As I lie here exposed
I wonder if my pain
is in anyway
a reflection of the artist
or if the artist
is simply thoughtless.

You leave uncertain marks.
Marks which tear
at my insides.
Marks which lie
The stars weep
and you laugh
as I,
crowded and remade
a thousand times,
become a void.

You scribble
in my margins,
your shapeless sentiments,
your waxy, wavering lines
sometimes offensive.
You tear my edges
and crush me
into a ball
with your fist.

I am only a draft.
You will never
carry me to the end.
I will not become
a memory for you.
I am nothing precious.
In me there is only
the notion of a life.

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