Collection of Poems Attempted

The Backside of the Page

Please tell me that I am not the only one who feels this way…

That when writing on a paper for notes, or poetry, or whatever,

You for some reason use the pen that bleeds through the paper forcing its way on both sides.

Therefore, as you are ferociously dragging your pen, spilling ink in the form of letters all over the innocent white page, parallel to the blue lines thinly sliced on it.

You unknowingly use up the whole paper.  Because once you use up the primary side of the paper and quickly flip it over to the back you realize that you can see every single word in a dark shadow of its former self.

BAHH! You curse the ink for being so robustly useful and awkwardly go on to the next page in your note book.

-This is the part where I hope I am not alone-

Don’t you feel bad?

At least just a little bit?

For as we all know: paper comes from trees. And trees are being knocked down brutally every day for this necessity of paper. The men (and women) are out there cutting, scraping, veraciously hacking down these beautiful trees that coincidently- help us breath, just for our benefit of writing down either useless information, or beautiful and maybe tormented thoughts of the mind.

And yet-

Here we are writing down, doodling, and using up so much paper that in all actuality doesn’t really need to be used. Because generally, as a student or just average human being we are writing things down that we don’t care about, won’t think of, nor use in the future except to remind us of what we learned so that we can get a B on our next test.

So, as you skip over the blank, back end of the paper don’t you think about where it came from/ That tree, those trees, the thousands being chopped down, the workers sawing them down, the haulers putting them on truck beds and moving them cross country, the multiple gallons of gas used to haul them, and not enough oxygen in the atmosphere to balance out that gas being used because we are cutting the very source where the balance lies. And then there are the mills that the trees are grinded and cut up in even slimmer, thinner, smaller pieces, and then it is produced into paper, all of these different trees being stuck together in one notebook- over and over and over again, a forced community of sorts. And then the trucks again use gallons and gallons of gas to get them to the stores and then the workers un-haul them, put them on the shelf for you to buy. Then you buy it, take it home, and then take it to school or work or wherever your little heart desires, and then you use that damn pen that soaks through the paper to the other side so that you cannot write on the back side of the paper for if you do- you’ll barley be able to read any of what you have just written. And WHAT I say WHAT would be the point in that? So here we are sitting, staring at this blank, transparent paper and wondering, pondering, deciding whether you should write on the back side of the blank paper or not…

You decide no, it’s not worth it because you want to be able to read what you wrote and not strain your eyes trying to read the shadowed side.

But then you start writing on the next clean, blank, and untouched appear- tattooing it with your new thoughts. But you can’t help but see the sad, untouched, and unloved back side of the other paper to your left. It stark grayness just stares at you and you can’t help but see it in your peripheral vision.

Here is what is running through your mind: A tree was sacrificed for each piece of paper. A tree was killed, each limb chopped off just for you, just for this moment. And you throw it to the wolves by not using it. Not making its sacrifice worthwhile.

Now you feel bad. Feeling as if you cheated that piece of paper out of a life well lived with your thoughtful (or maybe meaningless ideas) but nonetheless words. It craves to be useful, to hold some purpose, to hold your beautiful, stupid, wonderful, but maybe lucid literature. And here you are, passing it along for a better sheet of paper…

So this brings me back to my first tormented idea- don’t you feel bad? Or am I the only one?

Don’t you feel bad skipping over the perfectly useful –yet slightly shadowed- backside of the paper?

But here is the real question: To whom shall the blame be laid upon… the paper, the pen, or you?

Or am I just wasting my time thinking about all of this and worrying about our Earth, our actions, and our utter carelessness for it all…?