You think I peer down at your paper,
The poor vocabulary,
My shadow cast over you from over your shoulder,
For you to be buried by

You hate it,
The paper, I mean,
So subpar, you think,
Nothing amazing,
As if I somehow am

I hear the way you scratch the paper,
Your gaze sharpened into the point of your pencil,
Sharp enough to draw blood,
You are, I mean

For those thorns of yours,
Are perfect to me,
Strong and unique,
You are, I mean,

Although you find them not smooth,
As if I somehow am

But all I do is stare from above,
Lean over you to observe,
Not to block the sun,
To ensure your roots grow

But I should move,
Because you think I am in the way,
Making you unable to see the light

When really I am here,
Making sure you grow higher,
Than me, I mean,

But you’re ready,
And I had better get out of the way,
So I leave you to the paper