Okay, I wrote this poem tonight, or since it’s morning now, I guess LAST night. Though I warn you, it’s long 
============Paper Perfection=============
I sit here now, in total darkness,
Save for the light of the candle, on my wooden, splintered desk
It has upon it four sheets of paper, my quill, and my ink pot
My right hand and forearm, of course, are present as well
The sheets are stacked, with the bottom one so charred,
defiled with remnents of my thoughts and ideas carelessly scribbled upon it
And the next sheet up;
Defiled with but a few letters of precise writing,
No flaws can be seen, for it is folded in so many places,
If any such vices exist, they are ignored by me, or accepted as virtues
The second from the top;
So messy, so worn,
parts written with love and with blood,
And others with careless disconnect,
All folds open, creases no longer in sight
And for the top, so perfect, no writing in sight; no flaws can be seen, only perfect white,
Where my forearm rests, beneath lay a fold, one which till now I’ve ignored,
For so long I’ve been scared to defile the white with my blood or my ink,
And make impressions with my quill on the papers beneath
And as I was about to throw the bottom sheets away, to write to the top,
The fold I’d hidden from myself opened, and cut deep into my wrist,
I saw the only flaws beneath that fold,
And I watched the blood from my wound leak onto the page
It was a small amount, maybe but five drops, but it made the flaws worse,
And my candle fell upon the page, and made the brown spots burn red,
When I had snuffed the flame, there was only black left; I was forced to extinguish both flame and candle,
And the once brown spots were then black, and charred
Nothing is perfect, not even the sky, which is robbed of pure, black perfection by the white jewels it holds
I will scratch my prayers for forgiveness to my goddesses into my desk,
May my fingers fill with splinters, and may the grooves I carve flow with my blood,
I shan’t stop scratching till my pleas are complete
I shan’t, however, beg a mistress for forgiveness for things drained of context,
Or for promises uncompleted because time was not provided to finish them;
Ney shall I beg a mistress that has assaulted me with poorly founded accusations
I am their slave,
Bound to them with chains I forged myself to fit my role which is clear only to me,
But nothing lasts forever, not even the chains I ran through my bones,
When stressed, maybe they won’t break, but my bones are weaker than the iron with which the chains were forged,
And while both my bones will snap, and my flesh will tear,
With time my wounds will scab, then scar, and the pain will lose it’s hold
All thought up, written, and revised in like two hours
