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.