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A Fucking Papercut

Cream colored pages, flipping and flapping, 
Cutting the finger that fed it, the eyes
That gave the deadless ink life, crying
Silently, dreading its own black demise.
 
Red is the page that has cut the thumb, blood
Rains down the hand, but pain makes prose sweeter;
For what is prose but merely poesy, rud, 
Swollen by left-brained minds and no meter. 

So do I turn from poesy to fiction, much less
At the hand of a book who I so care
For as a child? My mind giving mindless
Ink life? No, for it does not dare.

I am no more prose than poesy, fiction;
Let the book lie in silence’s diction. 

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