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Helping Every Youth (HEY) Magazine – Youth and Young Adult Inspirational Lifestyle Magazine

Helping Every Youth (HEY) Magazine – Youth and Young Adult Inspirational Lifestyle Magazine

Torn Paper World

Poetry/Spoken Word

Torn Paper World

 

Who am I in this Paper World,
Of newspaper buildings and cardboard houses,
Being unfolded and refolded
By the undefeatable soul stealing ghost.
Each fold is a windstorm, ripping my paper limbs,
Which can’t be taped.

Fearless and unwavering, I walk through
The unfolding grey meadows of faceless demons,
With grounds of rotting paper limbs,
On which black flowers grow and burn like cigarettes.

My cancer lungs scream for oxygen
In the dense, smoky air,
As I climb the burning tower of hope.
I cannot defy the ghost,
As he sets its paper walls ablaze.
And with its stairs disintegrating,
It turns to ash and leaves me with a gift,
The last of its flames.

They smoulder and flicker like candles within me,
Burning a hole through my chest and eating my heart,
As they lick the walls of my soul,
Until I am charcoal black, powdery remains.

My dusty ashes swirl upwards with the wind,
As it sweeps in like a saviour to take me away.
“There is no tower to climb”, it whispers.

There is no tower to climb.
No paper cuts that can be hugged with band-aids.
This is not a hole in my favourite shirt,
That can be stitched,
Or a virus that I can vomit.

This is holding a pen with broken fingers,
Walking on pavement scattered with shards of glass,
Barefoot, in the dark.
This is standing before the murderous ghost,
And saying, “I dare you to try”.
That bastard.

This is me waiting for my ashes to reunite,
For my blood cells to re-multiply,
For my muscles and tissues to re-combine,
For layers of skin to reform,
And finally close the gaping hole in my chest,
That was left open,
Like an eerie cave for demons to crawl into.

Torturous screams echo off the walls
Of the cave,
As holes burn through every corner
Of the Paper World, in which I see,
That I am not a dirty floor that can be swept,
And I did not lose a pen that can be replaced.

Who am I in this Paper World?

A Paper Doll, with torn paper limbs,
With a hole for a heart.
Princess of the Paper Castle,
With spotless floors and mountains of pens.
Heir to the mighty Paper King,
That lost his battle with the ghost.
He, who left behind holes,
In his Paper World, his Paper Castle,
And in his Paper Doll.

That can never be filled.

Aiman Ali
Submission: Poem
Age: 18
Mississauga, ON
Email: aimanblue1@gmail.com

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