Poem-A-Day: Day 252

Paper Coughs

Paper-cuts on every finger;
a sad reminder
of working the doldrums of a bookstore,
or the fire pits of a post office.
Paper cuts everything;
the sharp stab as it tears flesh,
but only minimally
despite the indescribable pain.
Papers cut fine lines through fingertips,
and then the blood,
king crimson river flowing
is nothing but a shake off, and get moving.
Papers, caught in the act of malicious intent,
though it seems nigh impossible
it has happened, if only to serve
as a sad reminder.
The papers caught more than ever intended;
sound, fury, a resilient nature to breed
and be hungry for something unspoken,
some piece of life.
The papers cut free the thoughts,
release the bonds of servitude,
as the blood, the oily blood,
becomes a sign of liberation.
The paper cuts attempt deliverance
in a misguided art form,
the blood serves as a reminder
that life somehow has occurred.
The paper-cuts are nothing more,
than sad reminders on ever finger,
sad reminders that life is moving
and the only moving part are adorning cuts
on blood soaked hands.