The mint slices millions,
So fresh so clean.
What becomes of our page?
We’re paper on water, we float till we’re full,
Drown in the wet, the mess.
We bend, we fold
We trust the hands that hold us,
We get squeezed and we crinkle,
We get ripped and we tear.
Parts get too used, become thinned.
Places untouched stay pure.
A steady state of uncertainty,
Touched by the breeze of another.
At the mercy of life’s picasso,
What mood shall it be,
What colors will mark us for eternity?
Scratch of black, so thick it can’t wipe away.
Bright swirls bring vibrance and life.
Paint over the wrinkles,
The burns and the rips.
Fill the holes in a little too thick.
All art, and each paper hides a burden of truth,
Look close through the chaos,
Find the best.
Float the paper, and some washes
But some will remain.
Forever stuck to the beautiful sunken mess.