By Kenneth B., 14
Rivers of rage, metals of sadness.
I lost too many people here.
They drifted into my life on a piece of paper, making me observe their stories and experiences.
However, the paper got creased and formed wrinkles.
And those wrinkles turned into wounds.
And those wounds healed into scars.
Scars that would never fade.
Scars that ripped the paper.
I wished to help them, wished to do something, but I was too scared.
Their paper drifted into the river, deteriorating into the water, disappearing from the world.
So I would stand there, crying and ashamed at my inaction.
But I grew happier once more.
Then another paper flew into my life.
You know how the story goes.
Bridge Ink 