Rock, paper, scissors …why am I always paper?

Rock, paper, scissors…shoot, I’m paper. Always paper. I flatten myself out when I need to be flat. I’m a blank canvas upon which other people write what they need to write. I can be used and tossed aside. I don’t have the sharpness of scissors or the power of a rock. I’m crumpled, torn, tattered.

One day I’ll become something of value – a sheet of music, a piece of poetry. I’ll erase the scribbly mess and have a lasting purpose.

If I can just avoid those pesky scissors…

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