Folded Paper Must Begin to Fray

Disillusioned, dull and dreary— 
I’m afraid I’ve lost my shine.
Something in me’s crumpled on the floor.
It’s all-consuming, virulent, rife with
Lurching stomach, hollow motions
Unending parade of trite responsibilities.
Screams that never pass my throat
Insistent duties queueing up
Origami folds that crease me into shapes I
Meant to be.
Even if I could unfold myself,
No amount of pressing could erase
These lines.

Published by Aly Writes

I bake. I write. What goes better together than a good story and a delicious fresh-baked pastry? Nothing. And I can give you both. Grab a hot cuppa and join me.

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