Paper.

By Udit Gor

I am but paper. Brittle and thin. 

Conducive to sanctity, to sacrilege, to sin.

The silence of my screams when pens rip through my reams, 

Are nothing like the noises of the whispers in my dreams.

I am but paper. Untainted and white. 

Free to be made into an airplane, free to be used to write.

The death of my life is when you tear me in two, 

My edges I fold, my words I hold, so they seem like poetry to you. 

I am but paper. Crumpled and torn. 

Your scratches I endure and your drawings I adorn. 

The strength of your pen and pencil, the tenderness of your paintbrush.

Your high school poems to be read by everyone except your crush.

I am but paper. The canvas for your nightmare.

The eyewitness of your love, the bearer of your care.

In the corner of your cupboards, in the middle of your room.

The merchant of your adoration, the harbinger of doom.

I am but paper. I am the land of paper cuts. 

The house that sets the rules, the home that explores the ifs and buts.

Shimmering and shining, wallowing and whining, what you want is done. 

The pen may defeat the sword, but you rip through me with a gun.

I am but paper. I am all you want me to be. 

The things that no one knows, I hear and I feel and I see.

Burn me in your desire’s fire, drown be in your blood’s flood.

Pin me on your work desk, throw me in the mud.

I am but paper. The lives of papers is all I’ve seen. 

I’ve been paragraphs, poems, stories, but never have I ever been 

The book of someone’s life, the book they read every day. 

I am but paper. I am but meant to be thrown away. 

By Udit Gor