and I don’t care if it’s cheap paper.
I like it better that way—
When my tears fall on the pages, I want them to
smear black ink, not ruin good parchment, and
when I make a mess, I want it to be a glorious art.
Furthermore,
I’d like to construct a tower out of the rubble of my own broken heart,
instead of worrying so much about the material that I can’t build anything at all.
I have a lot to say and I can’t be constrained—
I am not pretty, I am persistent—
and if, in the end, the tower that I build falls
short of my own expectation,
that is down to me and me alone,
and not my pen, because
a multi-hundred dollar pen couldn’t pen a better poem.
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