Torn Paper World By aldo kraas, www.PoetryPoem.com/poet11586 Unlock all Features - Upgrade to Poetry Prime
Who am I in this paper world,
Of newspaper buildings and cardboard houses,
Being unfolded and refolded
By the undefeatable soul stealing ghost.
Each fold is a wisdom, ripping my paper limbs,
Which can't be taped.
Fearless and unwavering, I walk through
The unfolding grey meadows of faceless demons,
With grounds of rotting paper limbs,
On which black flowers grow and burn like cigarettes.
My cancer lungs scream for oxygen
In the dense, smoky air,
As I climb the burning tower of hope.
I cannot defy the ghost,
As he sets its paper walls ablaze.
And with its stairs disintegrating,
It turns to ash and leaves me with a gift
The last of its flames.
They smoulder and flicker like candles within me,
Burning a hole through my chest and eating my heart
As they lick the walls of my soul,
Until I am charcoal black, powdery remains.
My dusty ashes swirl upwards with the wind,
As it sweeps in like a saviour to take me away.
There is no tower to climb, it whispers.
There is no tower to climb.
No paper cuts that can be hugged with band- aids.
This is not a hole in my favorite shirt,
That can be stitched,
Or a virs that I can vomit.
This is holding a pen with broken fingers,
Walking on pavement scattered with shards of glass,
Barefoot, in the dark.
This is standing before the murderous ghost,
And saying, " I dare you to try."
That bastard.
This is me waiting for my ashes to reunite,
For my blood cells to remultiply,
For my muscles tissues to recombine,
For layers of skin to reform,
And finally close the gaping hole in my chest,
That was left open,
Lake an eerie cave for demons to crawl into.
Torturous screams echo off the walls
Of the cave,
As holes burn through every corner
of the paper world, in which I see
That I am not a dirty floor that can be swept,
And I didnot lose a pen that can be replaced.
Who am I in this paper world?
A paper doll with torn paper limbs,
With a hole for a heart.
Prrrincess of the paper castle,
With spotless flors and mountains of pens.
Heir to the mighty paper king,
Who lost his battle with the ghost.
He who left behind holes,
In his paper world, his paper castle,
And in his paper doll.
That can never be filled.
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