Paper adorns my walls and tells my life,

the same paper that can be burned and destroyed,

things that define who I am and will be,

even if I don't want them to.

Something anymore permanent,

seems to be only in the reach of the fulfilled,

and people like me--paper people,

are willowy bamboo waiting to be emptied.

Anything can be created with paper,

emotions and objects but none are stable,

waiting to be blown away,

torn to pieces with metal solidity.

So those like me--paper people,

are just the whims of the metal people,

indecisive in what they do,

with nothing to show for who they really are.