It is paper,
it is trees
chewed up
reconstituted
into thin, flat sheets
that fill my room
in stacks and stacks
with little order,
but they are mine
chosen by me
for some purpose
I may, or may not,
remember.
No one can take them away
until I die,
not like childhood toys
taken by others
and broken
or put high up
not even I
could reach.
Nor my childhood
taken by work
that was not mine,
so I see stacks
with satisfaction:
they are mine,
a part of me
no one else knows.
On many of them are words,
my thoughts, my writing,
also forbidden,
but no longer,
I can write now,
and do.
Want to read?

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