Obviously, lack of inspiration creates bad poems about paper and pens. I guess, after realising that fact, I became a little grouchy and told off the “readers”. From 2002-03.
There are many emotions that I want to seep into my pen
through my fingertips
let it bleed them onto paper.
I see black blood on the white piece of paper.
It’s as the emotions are mold growing on it.
I want the pen to live.
I want the paper to be purified.
My words are meant to confuse you
there is no other way to put all aspects of emotion on paper.
Try to understand something even I can’t.
The pen lives
and the paper dies.
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