it had been days
morose and listless
the sheet of paper
existed
but took no joy
from being alive

was it tainted
forever ruined
by the fool who scribbled
agonies in repetition

or was this all
there was to be found
cyclical madness
in repetitive motion
working to live
but never truly living

the sheet of paper
felt the lines
scratched across its pulp
but they gave no answers