My pencil leaks my mind onto paper,

--etching a piece of me into forever
unless, of course, the paper is burned

or crumbled and ripped into shards which would be a horrid fate


for a leaf of paper.

--Such an innocent item

can be the basis for anger.
If one word I scribe is amiss,


Fire may burn.

But a paper can

change the world
with the correct words,

a dark heart could change

--or a life may be saved.

Suppose I was to lose this paper,

--and it was destined to fly in the air.


It would fly—



Drift—




And fly—

And where it lands is all that matters.