Every time paper tears,
Its edges reveal the layers,
Smooth exterior gone,
a raw, rough half-existence staying on.
But it cannot take the weight of this pen,
tearing under the very ink,
that defined its existence when complete.
For a paper is just that,
Blank, Eager, Inviting;
Waiting for its destiny;
To foster creation and lend it a comfortable home.
It does not differentiate,
Colors, Words, Symbols and Notes
Birthed in thought,
Immortalize on the white;
Through the courage of the creator.
Transient, it takes on the nature of its thoughts.
And what's transient,
Oft passes away silently to rest in the sheltered embrace of oblivion.
But anything that is layered,
but not impregnable, yields.
A ungenerous rip and paper bares itself,
Its layers adorning the edge.
From thick to thin,
Periphery to core;
And its frayed borders reveal its abstraction.
Otherwise smooth, leveled;
Now a certain brittle roughness is all that remains,
at the edges of the torn pieces.
The center retains its essence,
A perfect image of what it's supposed to be.
But do visible centers do justice to the layered core within?
And just like that,
This heavy ink, tears it out;
blots its white completely with color.
paper loses its worth;
and swiftly ends up in the place where all worthless things belong.
Why then paper,
do you spur creation
only to yield to fear so easily?
But this paper doesn't answer,
Mute, it merely lays bare its frayed boundaries.
Fragile, they are destined to fold.
Creation is encumbered,
with the imperfection of visible weakness.
And what was complete,
is now raw.