Trees are cut and shaved
And sliced to make paper
The lined ones
The blank ones
The watercolor ones
The colored ones for construction
On which we draw and
Write and express our little minds
and ourselves
We fold them and tear them and
Cut them and wet them and paint them
And rip them and trash them and crumple
Them and ink them and color them and
Alter them

Paper was put in my hands
I never had held it
Before in my hands with such
Purpose and pride
Crayons and paper
Colored pencils and paper
Dried out markers
Tips smushed by little hands
As a child I would draw
Misshapen little people
And houses and cars and sunshine
I grew up on paper
I let the white sheet lead my
Untrained hand

I began writing on paper
It let me wash
Out my ideas and erase
And erase and erase
And walk in my cities and
Meet my characters and
Fight my enemies
And talk to myself
It let me flood my
Heart into it’s small blue
Lines the red margin
Always made me stop an
Inch before that red line
I still stop before the red line

But I never thanked the paper
It sounds stupid
Thanking an inanimate
Object that was created
For consumption
But it helped me find
Myself let me release my anxiety
As I drew
Or write my dreams away
It watched me grow up and
Mature and learn to love
I owe paper a lot
So thank you paper
For being the backbone of my life