Paper I am paper in the hands of a child. You touch me carelessly. Your eager fingers smudge my skin until all that is left is a window of a woman, a tragic sliver of white in an ever darkening room. I thin beneath your constant erasure. What I was and what I am interchangeable and imperfect. My needs are inconsequential, my nerves naked, my heart fuzzy and grey. I am merely a product for your amusement. You do not care, you only do that which comes easiest to you. As I lie here exposed I wonder if my pain is in anyway a reflection of the artist or if the artist is simply thoughtless. You leave uncertain marks. Marks which tear at my insides. Marks which lie scar-adjacent. The stars weep and you laugh as I, crowded and remade a thousand times, become a void. You scribble in my margins, your shapeless sentiments, your waxy, wavering lines untranslatable, sometimes offensive. You tear my edges and crush me into a ball with your fist. I am only a draft. You will never carry me to the end. I will not become a memory for you. I am nothing precious. In me there is only the notion of a life. (Yves K. Morrow is my penname)
February 26, 2022
Crepuscular Flowers (Audio)
An audio recording of my latest poem.
February 18, 2022