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The
smell of new paper, a love I proclaim,
For using computers is never the same,
I write what I want on a letter-size piece,
Then fold it in half with a very sharp
crease.
A poem
or a story, it's all up to me,
I write what I hear and I write what I see,
I write what I feel and say what I can,
I finish the story from where it began.
I open
a ream of some new paper stock,
You'll think this is silly, so please do not
mock,
The smell of the paper is Heaven to me,
With poems in the making, to fill me with
glee.
Each
sheet in the pack is a story untold,
With wit and some wisdom, it's there to unfold,
As pen glides on paper and feelings run free,
The words on the paper are me being me.
by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
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