Paper, that multi-textured palatable snack,
This fiberistic treat,
Trapped between my teeth.
This dusty tasting delicacy
With a hint of packing puff,
Disintegrates, turns to mush on my tongue.
And with that scrumptious slimy aftertaste,
It leaves me begging for more.

To touch it with my fingers,
This tactile delight in my trembling hands,
I grip onto a journal, hardbound,
Filled to the max with crisp, paper,
And thin, neat, black lines.
It is smooth, it’s fine, not gritty at all.
It beckons me each and every day.
It turns me towards it,
My eyes immobilized, impossible to look away.

I caress the paper side to side
And unlike imagined, that smooth journal finish,
Resists the flow of movement.
Between my fingers it starts to wine
In an odd low toned vibration,
My fingers say no, but like always,
My mind screams, YES!!

I have a failed attempt at resisting the urge
To violently tear the paper out,
God no, I just did!!
It barked at me repeated times over .
It burns my ears, that one soul sound.
I try to make a sad attempt,
At a silent apology, a useless eulogy
For the countless paper souls
I am about to murder.
It is now far beyond my control.

I am a serial killer
With a great taste for greed,
And I have crossed the line just now.
So if I’ve done it once,
I might as well do it again.
This time I take a step further.
I take that first piece of paper,

The one I still hold between two fingers,
And gently place it in my palm,
Like that of a new picked flower.
And CRUSH it! Inside my hand,
Over and over again
A violent symphony of sounds.
An angry piece of artwork.
Unfold it now mash, unfold it now squelch.
Eventually the sad, weak, piece of paper
Falls limp in my hand.

The symphony of sounds now diminished .
A once angry piece of art work,
With ridges and shade,
Now is useless, soft as cloth.

I am bored, now onto the books.
Books are different than journals
The paper much more soft, more thin
More malleable than before.
But unlike a blank piece of paper
I just can bring myself to destroy it.

Instead I sit at a bookstore
With both new and used books
I pick up a paperbound dictionary
And feel the glossy cover.
On the opposite side of the spine,
I gently place my thumb,
And on the back of the book
I place my remaining fingertips.

I file through the words,
So fast that I can’t read it.
My eyes are so close to the pages
I don’t see the rest of the world.
And filing through this database,
With my nose ever close to the pages
I hear the cracking sound,
Of the pages turning.
I gather that new book smell,

So crisp and pleasant
So impossible to turn into words
I look around, the store is silent,
Except for the sound of Book.
No stares as I gaze around.
So I debate in my head,
Should I lick it? Or not?

‘screw debates’ says the devil on my shoulder
‘just lick it, come on, it not that hard!’
There is no angel this time,
No one to tell me I’m wrong.
So I lick it over and over again,
Until my tongue starts to stick.

It’s over, I’m done
This melody I hear in the background
Has ceased playing.
I am done licking paper,
I am done with spit balls,
I am done torturing journals,
I am FINISHED!