A piece of paper cuts my hand, like razor sharp light,
as if from nowhere red spots, appear upon the white.
It is the innocent things it seems, can hurt so easily,
a plain piece paper is not a weapon of choice you see.
I turn for consolation, as always I'm alone in this place,
even the clock is silent, it's blinking eight's in my face.
So know one sees me bleed or ever shares my pain,
I'm now wary of the paper, as it may yet attack again. bkewl.
