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I am a deftly folded sheet of paper,
Splattered and scored with scars of ink.
I am filled with stories and images,
Created to tell the world about itself.
Bought at a corner stand, dropped at a house,
Two quarters, or a dollar on Sunday.
Stamped and painted in black for them,
I live for the peoples’ enjoyment.
For them to know about that murderer,
Or a football game, celebrities.
Before they toss me out; as only paper,
Worthless, black-stained, disposable.
Into a grated gutter, a silver can,
And laugh about the contents of my pages.