Paper

Paper When I sit down to write I can’t help but feel as if The words that clutter across my Sad Blank Sheet of paper Are not my own I write my words My thoughts My suffering But every time I reread my poetry I can’t help but feel an overbearing sensation Of plagiarism My hamartia is is that when I write I think about other people And never about myself I never actually allow myself to grow alone But end up alone in the process of forcing people Who avoid flourishment like an infection To do exactly that Sometimes I wish I were more of a selfish person What pity I have For the friend that took the poison from my hands Last time I chose to grow on my own What people refuse to acknowledge Is that growth is not just living But dying as well And realizing that death is not pretty And therefore Nor Is growth I have not met a single person Who did not mistake growth and improvement For synonyms While improvement is the act of making a situation better (Something I seem to be getting worse and worse at) Growth is seeing things for the way they are Such as seeing that true improvement is unobtainable No matter how many people You take down Or lift up on the way to your unrealistic idea of happiness My next statement Contradictory as it may seem Is that there is a way to grow And improve At once We come and go through it seemingly as we please And yet it is somehow still so out of our control And to grow is to realize that When we obtain this impossible harmony and balance It will be anything but poetic