With every key pressed on a typewriter

The letter flies forward and onto the paper longingly

It acts as if it hasn't seen the paper in years, decades, centuries

And it touches the paper as if to wrap small arms around it and hug it

As if to say "I love you and I've missed you down there in the dark."

But as it falls back into the pit, filled with letters much like it

It leaves an impression on that paper filled with a darkness

And that impression is deep, a scar that, if gone any farther, could have torn the paper

And the paper is touched again and again by the letters of darkness

Scars in odd shapes, filled with black blood, litter the whiteness

And the pain for the paper seems neverending, but it hears one last chime

And it is taken from the prison which held it so still as it was whipped

And it is placed in the light to be read by so many

And so many do read it, understanding not what it's been through

So many judge the scars and think they know what the paper means

But that paper is in pain, and no one can see it, so they read it under that light

And after oh so many years of the light, the scars, they turn white

And the paper can feel once again in its life

It knows the darkness no longer plagues it

But then, taken from the light, with vague white words on its skin

It is placed in the typewriter 

And feels pain once again