I hide in a paper house
in spaces where I need not speak.
I take up pencil, notebook,
write myself a rowdy place–
hundred-story bunk beds; mermaids in the fish tank, dragons in the yard.

Other books nourish mine–
lend me their rhythms, their characters,
teach me silent conversation,

sprint with me through enchanted forests.

I bloom purple, tape my binding,
put in hundreds more pages,
grow raggedy with each new chapter.

Teachers marvel.

“But I’m no creator,” I think.
“‘Real” is a pejorative term… They’re not real, no,
but they are.
They’re just… different, existentially speaking.”

I’m a tiny philosopher defending her tribe from Quinean visigoths,
knowing her friends’ invisibility will only cloak them so long.

They’re grateful–stay with me even as my quiet erodes.
They’re tumbling over each other to see me,
breathless “You’ll never guess what happened!”

I strain to listen over the hubbub,
put my ear up, as if to a conch shell,
pencil at the ready.

---

Featured Download: If you would like a resource to help you write poetry like “Paper House,” CLICK HERE.