Ears of paper. Writing is my voice. Every time I put ink to the paper, its by choice. Every mark is a tear. Every erase is a fear. Every word is what the paper hear. Rather its sad, bad, or someone you wish you had. Things like arguments with my Dad. Maybe even a dream that I once had. Its the ears of paper. Leaving you out and waisting coffee on you, but yet you dry as if you were a water vapor, memberizing everything I wrote you. Though I ball you up, and leave you for trash. You recyle yourself and left just like the past. You are the ears of paper.