Paper

I sit there
Running out of paper
I need a new piece,
Before my interest tapers

I raise my arm
I raise my hand
I can't do much harm
With my demand.
Can I?

And every false cry
Of laughter
Can't shatter the mirror
Of sadness inside me.
No happy ever after.

You finally arrive,
But the paper's all gone
There's none too spare.
You tell me to just carry on
But my paper's not bare
There's no room.
You'll see that soon.

And upon my "paper"
Is a hundred lines
That I drew, to escape
To forget these times.

A line for every tear
A line to banish fear
A line to bring you near
A line to get me out of here.

And each stroke
Is some sort of suicide plan.
I drew them to return me
To where I first began.

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not thr best poem i've ever wrote but i needed to get it out