art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Tattered Paper Doll
May 24, 2018, 10:09 PM My body feels as if I’m a pop-up book. Every time someone opens the binding, I pop to life, but I’m made of paper. Fragile and easy to tear. I have betrayed my body, for my body has done the same. My joints feel torn and swollen. My spine no longer supports my neck or my head. My brain won’t shut off and follow my schedule anymore. I’ve lost a part of me to where I’ve become a paper thin, hand-drawn cartoon character in someone’s childhood story. I’m happy, very happy. Then I’m sad, too sad. There’s no balance. Literally I ache and yearn to sleep and fix myself, but I lost control. And I have allowed someone to take the book, and read it cover to cover, draw over the pictures, and create something from their mind’s eye. But when I decide to make changes to myself and my character, I allow their non-reading of my story to affect me so I don’t change for myself. They continue to stretch out my entire body to where I’m torn and worn out. My paper body is crumbled, and I’m ripped. Now I’m thrown into a box left behind and donated to a new person. Not sure of what I am or who I am anymore. The words on my pages barely make sense with scratched out phrases and crayon-colored revised ones. What’s my purpose now? No one will need a used book with another child’s drawings and vandalism on every page. It’s hard to hide with covers falling apart. Oh, well.
By Krysta Mangubat7 years ago in Poets
