I was dancing on the paper
With my simple paper self
When I saw her from afar,
In her perfect paper beauty.

And my perception
Was usually paper-thin flat,
But when paper her saw paper me
I knew we were going to the same paper place.

I was going back to my paper roots,
And she, too, was going back to her paper point of origin,
And as paper me neared paper her
Paper me sweat paper storms.

And for this one small moment
Paper us was born.
And paper me bumped paper her
Right at this one paper point.

And paper her looked at paper me and smiled,
But I was not happy
Because her smile was paper propaganda,
Paper her convincing paper me that paper her was the one.

And so I kept moving and paper her
kept paper put at her paper point.
Paper me lost paper her,
But paper me doesn’t care.

And when paper me realized that I don’t care,
It’s because the dancing paper me
Is not made of paper,
But rather is made of pen put on paper.

I am put on paper, I am bound to paper,
I soak into paper, I assimilate to paper,
But I am not paper.
And I forget that sometimes.

I play to the paper standards and paper ideals
Of the paper world on which I am put.
But paper me is not the pen me,
Who decides who I am and whom I love.

Because I am thrown onto this paper world,
And pen me is trying to be paper me and fit in with the paper people,
But my origin is not the paper on which I am thrown,
But rather the pen that makes me who. I. am.

I have lived my whole life on this paper world.
But I am not paper I am pen.
I will not fold to this world like the paper these people are made of.
But I will draw myself to be the person I really am.